


Baker Street: Part XVIII

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [33]
Category: Magnum P.I. (TV 1980), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 20th Century, 221B Baker Street, Alibis, Antisemitism, Attempted Murder, Bigotry & Prejudice, Boats and Ships, Bullying, Buses, Castration, Cock Rings, Cornwall, Disguise, Edwardian Period, Embarrassment, Emotions, England (Country), Eunuchs, F/M, Family, Fan-fiction, Forgery, Gay Sex, Government Conspiracy, Harems, Herefordshire, Homophobia, Infidelity, Inheritance, Injury, Jealousy, Johnlock - Freeform, Jumpers, Justice, Kissing, London, Love, M/M, Minor Character Death, Monuments, Murder, Mushrooms, Nobility, Northumberland, Photographs, Poisoning, Politics, Royalty, Rugby, Scotland, Seaside, Seers, Shropshire, Sussex, Theft, Threats, Trains, United States, departure, essex, fudge - Freeform, misrepresentation, norfolk, warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:21:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 57,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27757561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1903-1904. And so, the end is near, but the final curtain is not quite within reach as Sherlock and John encounter a brave Lion, another deceptive photograph, a false front, a fatal fertility stone, an untimely alibi, and some men who are might indeed 'make the cut. Sherlock is arguably less than truthful and worst of all for John handsome young men seem to abound, with yet another leering young Cornishman, a young knight with a spear, and a handsome rugby-player! But they come through and make it to their Sussex hideaway (and all that sex!).
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Mrs. Hudson/OMC, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Tobias Gregson & Lestrade
Series: Elementary 366 [33]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Kudos: 5





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tipsylex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tipsylex/gifts), [bookworm4ever81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm4ever81/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contents page.

** 1903 **

**Interlude: A Blessing And A Warning**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock and John's departure from Suffolk has to be a fast one_

 **Case 347: The Adventure Of The Brave Lion**  
by Mr. Hereward Buckingham, Esquire  
_A desperately sad man is driven to suicide – can he be saved?_

 **Case 348: The Adventure Of The Blanched Soldier**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_The camera never lies – but sometimes it stretches the truth_

 **Case 349: The Adventure Of The Wonderful Day**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_John's luck is out as he runs into another annoying Cornishman_

 **Case 350: The Adventure Of The Three Gables**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_John is away, and Sherlock needs foresight to outdo a fake seer_

 **Interlude: Noblesse Oblige**  
by General Carlyon Holmes  
_Carlyon Holmes has a hard evening of socializing_

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** 1904 **

**Case 351: The Adventure Of The Mazarin Stone**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Sherlock returns to Galloway, and death strikes more than once_

 **Case 352: The Adventure Of The Unkindest Cut ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Name-calling means two unpleasant men face Consequences_

 **Case 353: The Adventure Of The Time-Traveller ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock goes back in time to destroy an unbreakable alibi_

 **Case 354: Breakfast In Marseilles**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_John is disappointed, and there are some very happy people_

 **Case 355: The Saving Of Thomas Sullivan Magnum ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_221B gains an unexpected resident from the United States_

 **Interlude: A Policeman's Lot**  
by Sergeant Galleron LeStrade  
_LeStrade versus Gregson, Part Deux_

 **Case 356: The Adventure Of The Quietest Place**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Young Scott McCall runs away from the Army – for a good reason_

 **Case 357: Beauty And The Beast ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_The family game, as someone breaks the rules – but foolishly involves someone ‘close’ to Sherlock_

 **Interlude: Scrum Down**  
by Mr. Brencis Bassett-Evans, Esquire  
_There is (most of) another rugby kit....._

 **Case 358: Finding Galahad**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Sherlock hunts down someone who likes standing around naked_

 **Case 359: The Adventure Of The Creeping Man**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_The last case from Baker Street, and success is far from sweet_

 **Interlude: Home And Away**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Farewell to 221B_

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	2. Interlude: A Blessing And A Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1903\. A difficult parting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of attempted suicide.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

My twin had asked to see me alone again before our departure, which I supposed was understandable. It was strangely unnerving, the way that he was able to both look so much like me and yet not like me at the same time. I had always eschewed the supernatural but what with one thing and another my innate logic was driving me to the point of accepting it, at least as far as he was concerned.

“Something has happened”, he said urgently, “or is about to happen. I feared that it might, but the warning I had was only vague until just now. It will concern a gentleman who you helped before, a Mr. Lion Buckingham.”

“What of him?” I asked.

“He is preparing to take his own life!”

I stared at my twin in horror.

“Can he be stopped?” I asked.

“The house trap will take you to Darsham in time to catch a train to Ipswich”, he said, and I noted with concern that he had not answered my question, “then you will have to go to Chelmsford and take a long carriage-ride to the home of his brother Mr. Hereward who lives in a place called Chipping Ongar. You will need him for what is to come. Two more things before you go, brother.”

“Yes?” I said anxiously.

“I shall be decamping to the United States soon so we shall not meet again”, he said, “although thanks to the wonders of modern technology I shall keep in touch. And when it comes to your final case, your last bow so to speak, remember something important. Not all blessings are good ones.”

He would clearly say no more, nor did I have the time to press him. I stood, shook his hand, wished him well and hurried out to join John.

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	3. Case 347: The Adventure Of The Brave Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1903\. The unknowing half-great-nephew of a certain consulting detective, Mr. Hereward Buckingham's life seems set fair – but his concerns about his adoptive brother prove all too accurate. Fortunately his other family is set to ride to the rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of failed suicide attempt.

_[Narration by Mr. Hereward Buckingham, Esquire_

Lion should have hated me.

He really should have. I know that I was the blood Buckingham and he was adopted, but Father had always made it clear that he treated us as equals, even if I had been the one who was originally supposed to have inherited the family business one day. However my marriage last year to Sarah and the fact that she will inherit a fair-sized chunk of Morayshire one day meant that it had been agreed he would be the one who....

Sarah is right as per usual; I do babble. I had better start at the beginning.

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Some people believe that they have a guardian angel watching over them. I am not that religious (although I would never say as much to Mother or I would get a clip round the ear) but if that is true then our family's guardian angel was in the human form of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who had assisted our family on more than one occasion. The last two times were when Father sought his help to try (unsuccessfully, alas!) to prevent Lion's father from murdering his mother, although he was able to secure justice there in the end, and more recently when that harridan Miss Reinelde Medlow had levelled false accusations against me. In both cases Mr. Holmes had ridden to the rescue and settled matters as much as they could be settled, and I know how truly grateful Father was even if he did complain (a lot) about Mother simpering at the fellow, which despite her denials she did indeed do. Three times, one of which was when Father had been standing right next to her!

The first of these two matters had occurred some eight years back and had left poor Lion an orphan. Fortunately I had been able to persuade Father to adopt him as I had always wished for a brother (I had long known such a thing was all but impossible because my own birth had been so hard for poor Mother). The adoption process went through without a hitch – I was sure that Mr. Holmes helped there too as I knew from a friend of mine how obstructive some officials could be these days – and I obtained for a sibling someone kind, generous and giving who made those with less tolerable or even downright annoying brothers and sisters justifiably jealous. We had grown to be men in peace and harmony but over the past year a cloud had come over our lives, or at least his.

I have never been good with people and I was fortunate that dear Sarah made up for my failings in that area. She pointed out (several times) that although I thought myself and Lion equal in almost every way, to outsiders I was very much the superior brother and he the whelp. I was the one who had married a rich and beautiful lady (if not a modest one, I thought but did not say for obvious reasons!) and was now possessed of a healthy baby boy named after my father. I was also tall, blond and muscular, very much the atypical handsome Anglo-Saxon, while my adoptive brother was of average height, dark-haired and while not exactly ugly was plain and, several people had told her, worth considering as a husband only because of his future inheritance. I was saddened and shocked at such an attitude but when I asked around I found her to be right about that too. 

For some reason I had never quite got round to telling her that. Memory like a sieve.

The one thing about Lion that I _had_ noticed of late was that he had become very highly-strung. He had always been a nervous young fellow but of late it had become notably worse, and he had resisted Father's attempts to train him in handling a gun. Not that England was the sort of place where a gentleman _needed_ a firearm, of course, but I did notice that when we went round a farm one time and there was some shooting taking place in a nearby wood, he was a bag of nerves.

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Looking back, my first thought when it happened was that I had abjectly failed as a brother. Whatever anyone said, I should have seen the warning signs. Thank the Lord that things turned out the way they did or I would have found it difficult to have lived with myself over such dreadful behaviour.

Lion and I occasionally saw Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson but I doubt that either of them had spotted anything amiss. Father had accompanied us the last time only a few days ago and Mr. Holmes had mentioned that they were about to head off to East Suffolk for a case there. I was therefore most surprised when they called in at my home in Chipping Ongar, as the route back from where they had gone would have been quite difficult involving as it did either a long carriage-ride from Chelmsford or a most circuitous route back through the capital. I thought at first that they might be here to see young Henry, but the worried looks on both their faces quickly told me otherwise.

“Where is your brother, sir?” Mr. Holmes asked urgently. 

“At home with Mother and Father, I think”, I said. “Why? Is something the matter?”

The two gentleman looked at each other. My sense of apprehension only increased. I did not like their expressions one little bit.

“I have received some grave news”, Mr. Holmes said. “We believe that Lion is so depressed that he may be considering taking his own life!”

I gasped in horror. My initial reaction was to ask how they knew, but if they were right then every moment counted. Explanations would have to wait.

“My parents' house is in Epping, about ten miles away”, I said. “I do not know the times of the trains but they do live close to the railway-station, March Road which adjoins Station Road.”

“Do you have a carriage?” Mr. Holmes asked.

“Yes.”

“Then we will drop the doctor at the station here and he will get there by train while we drive”, he said firmly. “Hopefully one or the other of us will reach him in time!”

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Fortunately our village station lay not far from my house so we were easily able to drop the doctor off there before racing on ahead; I could see steam from a locomotive at the platform so hopefully a train was due out soon. I doubt my poor old Bertie has ever been driven quite so fast in his life but Mr. Holmes managed to coax great speed out of the beast without using the whip and we were at my parents' house in surprisingly short order. I suppose that I could have asked him just how he knew what he knew, but somehow the time did not seem right. 

As we approached Epping there was no sign of the doctor – I had not expected there to be as I had noted the train coming up behind us just as we had entered the town – and we hurried in at the gateway. For a brief moment my heart soared in relief. There, picking early Bramleys off one of the trees in the grounds was Lion looking totally unharmed and.....

And looking guilty. With a coil of rope on the ground next to him!

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I deserved every hurt, every ache and every pain as I watched my poor, unhappy brother admit how worthless he had been feeling of late. I had been responsible for bringing him into my family, but I had gone and abandoned him. I was such a heel!

“Your brother is a grown man”, Mr. Holmes said quietly as the three of us sat together later. Father and Mother were, it turned out, away for the whole day so the whole sordid business could be broken to them gently when they returned, while the doctor had given poor Lion a sedative. I rarely drank (except after Sarah's parents had been round) but accepted a large whisky which I downed in one go. I was still shaking after that.

“I should have seen something”, I said bitterly. “He was my brother, damnation!”

“Introverts like him are good at concealing their true feelings”, Doctor Watson said. “I have treated some in my time, and like a volcano one never knows when the eruption is going to happen. Your parents are good people, but they cannot have known or they would certainly have done something.”

“What is to be done now?” I fretted. “Poor Mother, this will be dreadful for her.”

“Your brother needs time to heal”, Mr. Holmes said. “I believe that there is a sanatorium close in Chipping Ongar?”

“Yes, about a mile from my house”, I said. “But you know how those places work. They cannot tie him down and keep him there, let alone watch him around the clock.”

“We need about a week”, Mr. Holmes said thoughtfully. “Is there any familial event coming up any time soon?”

“Mother's birthday is the week after next”, I said. “Why do you ask?”

“You must visit Lion when he is there and tell him that Father is planning a surprise party for her on that day”, Mr. Holmes said. “Something soppy and romantic because he knows how much she likes that sort of thing, even if he would no doubt consider it a threat to his manliness.”

For some reason he looked pointedly at Doctor Watson as he said that, and his friend blushed deeply.

“Lion will not want to mar such an event”, Mr. Holmes said, “and before it happens he is going to have a rather curious little adventure of his own. I will also need your help.....”

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Thankfully Father and Mother arrived back before Lion had come round so were we able to explain matters to them. They were of course devastated but agreed that some time away would be beneficial for the poor fellow. 

Mr. Holmes outlined his scheme to me in more detail. I was I will admit a little dubious, albeit more over my own abilities than in his. I had of course to explain everything to Sarah when I got back and although I feared that she might fret, she was fully supportive of the whole idea.

“Of course you must do it, dear”, she said firmly. “He is your brother after all. Besides, you have always enjoyed being a drama queen.”

I frowned.

“I am _not_ a drama queen!” I said firmly.

“Really?” she smiled. “Then who was it that I saw was standing in front of the bathroom mirror reciting lines from 'Macbeth' the other day?”

Suddenly I could see why my some men preferred the single life. Harrumph!

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I visited poor Lion in the sanatorium every day for the next week, despite his protests. At first he did not want to eat but Mother soon persuaded him out of that and by the end of his first week he looked a little better, unless that was just my wishful thinking. Or more likely my guilty conscience; I had slept little myself. I discussed various trivial news items with him during my time there and made sure to mention that Mr. Holmes was having problems with a major crime syndicate, although I did not know any details.

Finally we reached the particular day for which Mr. Holmes had our great adventure planned. I had told Lion the day before that I would be able to spend longer with him today as Sarah's parents were visiting and the chance to miss her mother's braying laugh which sounded like a group of donkeys undergoing a mass castration was too good to pass up (I would be buying my wife a large box of chocolates _and_ a bunch of flowers as the price of my escape, but it was so worth it!). 

I had barely sat down before he began.

“Herry, something terrible is about to happen!”

“What could possibly happen in here?” I yawned. “We are safe from the whole world.”

“But it may not be safe from us!” he said. “Do you know that new nurse, Miss Almira Weston?”

I shuddered. The raven-haired nurse had arrived here just after poor Herry, and had the sort of attitude that suggested she enjoyed making everyone's life as miserable as possible. Fortunately the men and women had separate wings and she was on the women's ward.

“Have you trespassed on her imperial fiefdom for some reason?” I asked. “Why?”

“I have not”, he said huffily, “but I was reading in the library yesterday when she came in. I was in one of those nooks so she did not see me. She had three very rough-looking men with her, and they were talking.”

“Talking in the library”, I nodded. “Tut tut. Ten years for that, at least!”

He scowled at me.

“Be serious for a minute!” he snapped. “They were talking about what they called 'offing someone'. And the name they said was our Mr. Holmes.”

I frowned.

“But why would a nurse in an Essex sanatorium want to..... 'off' our friend?” I asked.

“One of the men asked that and she said that he had put away her brother”, Lion said, twisting his hands around each other (he always did that when he was anxious). “Herry, what can we _do?”_

I thought for a moment.

“Did she say anything about a time or date?” I asked.

“She said four o' clock in the afternoon on the next Full Moon because that was the moment her brother was hanged”, he said. “When is that? It has been cloudy every night recently.”

There was a calendar on the opposite wall from his bed. I crossed to look at it, then gulped.

“Today!” I said glancing at my watch. “Oh Lord!”

“We must send Mr. Holmes a telegram at once”, he urged. I shook my head.

“They will have thought of that”, I said. “I remember reading one of Doctor Watson's stories where someone had people in place to stop telegrams reaching their quarry. No, we shall have to go in person.”

“We?” he asked incredulously. “I am going nowhere.”

“We need numbers in case someone tries to stop us”, I said. “One of us must get through. I will say that I am checking you out and taking responsibility for a day out in Chelmsford; they cannot object to that. Then we can go to the station and catch a train to Baker Street although we will have to change somewhere. We should just make it in time!”

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Checking my brother out of the place was not a problem, but I noticed a familiar figure watching us as we completed the inevitable paperwork at the reception desk. I covertly nudged my brother.

“Try not to make it obvious”, I whispered as I waited for the last form to sign, “but we are being watched.”

He gulped and visibly shook at the sight of the new nurse, who was very clearly observing us. We left unhurriedly and as the cab began to drive away she came out after us.

“We have got away from her”, Lion sighed in relief.

“We may have got away from _her_ ”, I agreed, “but she is sure to have people that she can communicate with by telegram. We need to get a move on.”

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We only had to wait a short wait for a train at Ongar Station and Lion was visibly nervous the whole time. I could relate, and as the train chuffed towards the capital its slow progress did nothing to ease his worries. At Woodford we were fortunate enough for our compartment to come to a halt opposite a newspaper stand so I stepped out and purchased one. We had only just got underway again when I reached an article that made me gasp.

“What is it?” Lion asked at once.

“Listen to this”, I said. “The Metropolitan Police Service are under attack today after it was revealed that three dangerous criminals escaped from gaol in the capital last week, yet the general public was not notified. The three are believed to be all part of the notorious Kensal Street Gang, whose shady leader is said to be an American called Elmer West.”

I looked pointedly at him. He just looked confused.

“Elmer West”, I said. _“Almira Weston?_ You did say that the one time you heard the nurse speak, she had an American accent.”

“What does it say about the three men?” he asked anxiously.

“Mr. Gino Scirocco known as 'The Scarecrow', famed for using a tramp-disguise to get close to his victims. Mr. Antonio Hartless known as 'The Tin Man', because he always wears grey. And Mr. Wesley Austin known as 'The Wizard' – because he is so efficient at making dead bodies disappear!”

“Oh Lord!” he groaned. “What have we gone and blundered into?”

“A chance to save the life of the gentleman who avenged your poor mother”, I said. “I only wish that I could use my gun, or that you had taken those lessons.”

“Why can you not use your gun?” he asked, surprised.

“I sprained my shoulder last weekend”, I said. “Embarrassingly it was because I picked up Henry the wrong way; Sarah is still laughing at me for being so clumsy. I have the gun but it is useless.”

He shuddered and visibly steeled himself.

“Give it to me”, he said bravely. “If I have to then.... I suppose I have to.”

I looked at him admiringly and handed it over.

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I managed to give Lion some quick lessons in handling a weapon over the next few stops; fortunately we had a compartment to ourselves otherwise we would surely have attracted some attention for that. We had reached Stratford before we encountered any trouble. I looked out of the window once the train had come to a stop and quickly pulled back in.

“Damnation!” I hissed.

“What is it?” he asked anxiously.

“A tall scruffy fellow is walking down from the front of the train and looking into each compartment”, I said. 

He looked at me in confusion.

“He looks a bit of a scarecrow?” I ventured.

“Oh no!”

“He is some distance away and we can hide in the corridor”, I said. “But he will likely join the back coach and then walk through; that evil nurse must have gotten him a telegram to tell him that this is likely our train. Quick!”

I led the way out into the corridor and we hurried towards the rear end of the coach where there was a lavatory and hence no window outside. But it was only a three-coach train and the fellow would soon be just yards away from us.

“Can we not block the door?” Lion asked.

“Of course!” I exclaimed. “Mr. Holmes's coin trick that he explained to me!”

Lion looked confused but I quickly found a halfpenny in my pocket and jammed it into the door-handle mechanism. No-one could gain access from the next coach now, but that still left our pursuer the option of simply waiting until the next station and stepping out onto the platform to avoid our obstruction.

“The next station is Mile End”, I mused. “That is a stroke of luck.”

“Why?” Lion asked.

“Because he will be expecting us to change to the Metropolitan at Liverpool Street where the connection is better”, I said, “so he will use the next station to just change carriages and get round our obstacle. But we can change there as well. We shall have to wait until the train is about to leave and make a run for it. Let us go to the front of the train to give us as much distance as possible.”

He looked worried but nodded. The train was already slowing and we walked quickly to the very front. It seemed like an eternity as we waited for the guard's whistle but finally it came and we all but tumbled out of the coach, earning ourselves an angry yell from a passing porter. Luckily the footbridge was nearby and we were already on the stairs as the train pulled out.

“I saw someone try to open a door but the train was going too fast”, he panted. “Have we lost him?”

“Yes, but at a price”, I said. “Now that he knows we were there he will likely do two things. He will alert the rest of his gang and he will try to intercept us himself, almost certainly at Liverpool Street. Which he is certain to reach before us.”

“But can we not take the District to Mark Lane and then double back?” he asked looking at a map set halfway up the footbridge. “That does not look to be much further and the underground platforms at Liverpool Street are surely on different levels.”

“You are right”, I said. “That is our only option; from the Tower to Baker Street across the whole of London by road would take ages. Once he misses us on the next Central line train he will think that we did that. But I fear that we are not out of the woods yet.”

I was to be proven all too right. But then I knew that already.

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We doubled back at Mark Lane as Lion had suggested and were soon heading towards Baker Street, both of us counting down the number of stops to go. We reached Euston Square when I saw Lion smile for possibly the first time that day.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Some poor fellow with even less taste than me has just got on”, he grinned. “Normal clothes but all grey.”

I stared at him in horror.

“What?” he asked.

“All grey”, I said slowly. “Grey as in tin?”

His face was suddenly ashen.

“What can we do?” he fretted.

“More importantly, what can he _not_ do?” I said. “The train is so packed, I doubt that he can risk anything until Baker Street where quite a few people will alight. Did he get into our carriage or another one?”

“The next one down”, he said. “Why?”

“Because the doors between carriages on this line are always kept locked”, I said. “We had better make a run for it at the next stop, Great Portland Street. Thankfully that is just the other side of Regent's Park – I remember taking a walk there once – so it is not far.”

“If we make it!” he fretted.

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We fairly bolted out of the train at Great Portland Street and were out onto the street in barely a minute. Our pursuer would be delayed by having to fight his way through the crowds so we had to make our lead tell. I almost shoved Lion into a cab and yelled the address at the driver, who set off at a fast trot.

“Can this thing not go any faster?” Lion fretted. “Are we being pursued?”

“We are on the Marylebone Road”, I said, “one of the busiest thoroughfares in London. If we were not being followed by several dozen cabs, something would be wrong. Check the gun and be ready. It is not far now.”

He nearly fell out when the driver executed a sharp right into Baker Street and after what seemed like an age we were outside the Georgian facade of 221B. I had used the time to get the fellow's money ready – a large tip but he deserved it – and all but threw it at him as we tumbled up the stairs to where thankfully the front door was open as a maid was cleaning the steps. The landlady Mrs. Rockland was also there and looked more than a little surprise at our hasty advent.

“May I be helping you gentlemen?” she asked politely.

“We desperately need to speak with Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson”, I said. “I only hope we are in time.”

“You may have to wait”, she advised us. “I have just sent up another visitor, a Mr. Smith.”

I looked at Lion in horror.

“We are too late!” I cried.

“Not if we catch him up!” he said. “Come!”

He leaped towards the stairs and I rushed after him. We both tried not to make too much noise and fortunately someone in one of the rooms was playing one of those new phonographs with the door open. We came within sight of the door to Room Five – and there was a large gentleman outside holding a gun!

Then the door opened and Doctor Watson appeared. He looked at the fellow in shock.

“No!” I yelled.

The fellow at the door was momentarily confused at having two targets, but he turned and levelled his gun at me. Lion, bless the fellow, did not hesitate but fired straight at him. The door slammed in front of 'Mr. Smith' but from the slowly enlarging red patch on his white shirt and the way in which he slumped to the floor, there had been no need. He was dead.

“You did it!” I said in amazement. “Lion, you saved me!”

I took the gun from him and he smiled at me strangely. 

Then he went down like a sack of potatoes!

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“That has to be one of the most elaborate set-ups in the history of set-ups”, I said later as I sat with Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson. “It is even in the 'Times' as to how the brave English Lion saved his brother's life.”

“The journalists there owed me a favour”, Mr. Holmes said. “That and inventing this mysterious gang of killers out to murder me more than pays their debt, I would say.”

“The only 'casualty' was the carpet outside, victim of rather too much fake blood”, Doctor Watson grinned. “We shall be owing Mrs. Rockland a box of apology chocolates for that.”

“Not forgetting the cakes for Miss St. Leger for the hire of several of her most menacing and terrifying trained killers”, Mr. Holmes smiled. “Your brother now feels truly valued, sir, and we must endeavour to keep it that way.”

And for the rest of my life I did just that.

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	4. Case 348: The Adventure Of The Blanched Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1903\. The truth, they say, is black and white – but in this case it was the shades between that led to an attempted cover-up which Sherlock, despite a frankly terrible client, managed to expose.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

There was a certain irony in the fact that our next case began on the day that it did, October the eleventh. I had been reading in the 'Times' about the establishment of the Women’s Social and Political Union, a splinter group from the suffragist movement which had been pushing for equal rights for women for decades now. This new body promised – or rather threatened – ‘deeds, not words’ and I was concerned that the general movement (which I tacitly supported) might well be set back by such un-English aggression. Time would indeed prove me right; the new tactics would only serve to harden opposition against extending the franchise and it would be the essential part played by the fairer sex in the Great War which would result in women eventually and deservedly obtaining the vote. 

Poor old Simon de Montfort must have been spinning in his grave either way!

I was about to see such aggression in the New Woman first-hand that very morning. Miss Holston Radley-Barnham was about thirty years of age, dressed in what was almost a manly-like set of clothes and clearly thought a great deal of herself on what as far as I could see were precious little grounds. She was also American and like rather too many of her countryfolk did not seem to realize we were sat in the same room, not several miles away across the plains.

“Harrumph!” she said looking disapprovingly first at Sherlock and then at me. “I have no time for men in general but I suppose that I have seen worse. You will do.”

I winced as I thought back to the terrible Madam Worrea and more recently Mistress Glick, both of whom had paid for their character failings albeit to different degrees. If this was the future of fairer sex, then Mankind was pretty much doomed in my humble opinion. At least this harridan had not got round to simpering at Sherlock.

_Yet._

“How may we be of service, madam?” my friend asked politely.

“Not to me!” she said firmly and I bit back a smile. My friend's famous charms would not work on this female, of that I was sure. “My dear friend Elizabeth wants to find a man.”

“Indeed”, Sherlock said. “Would any gentleman do, or does she have more specific requirements?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, which was a bad mistake on her part. Sherlock could out-stare a python. She blinked.

“Harrumph!” she said again, looking curiously at him. “Yes, I think you might do very well!”

I almost moved from my place when I saw the predatory look on her face but Sherlock shook his head at her. Even though she was not looking in my direction I glared evilly at her.

“The case, madam?” Sherlock pressed. She sighed, sounding almost disappointed.

“Elizabeth has conceived some frankly idiotic notion that she is in love with a soldier based on – well, of all things, on a _photograph!_ ” she said scornfully. “There is no reasoning with someone when that happens and believe me, I have _tried!_ But logic and rationality can do nothing; she will not be told! I need you to find the soldier in question so that she can see what he is like and, more importantly, I can decide if he is good enough for her.”

“What information do you have on this fellow?” Sherlock asked.

“Very little”, she frowned. “It is all incredibly vexatious. Elizabeth works in a bakery in Milford Street, next door to a photographic studio where they display some of their work in their window. Recently they put up this picture of four soldiers in uniform and she told me that she thought one of them was – I cannot believe that someone of my acquaintance actually uttered that dreadful word – _‘dreamy'!”_

I turned away to hide my smile. Miss Radley-Barnham sounded like her friend had gone and confessed to a massacre of puppies!

“You have not made any efforts to find the man yourself?” Sherlock asked. Our visitor huffed.

“Elizabeth went into the shop and turned on the waterworks for the owner”, she snorted. “It is frankly pathetic the things that some men will do just because a woman cries! He told her that the fellow who had paid for the photo was Lieutenant James Anderson, the son of Colonel Theobald Anderson if that means anything. The lieutenant is not the one by the way; the object of her affections is the idiot lurking right at the back.”

“You have approached Lieutenant Anderson?” Sherlock asked.

“I did”, she said. “Elizabeth was terrified when I suggested it but I believe in doing things, not daydreaming about them. Deeds not words, as they say in the newspaper. He told me that the man had been a fellow lieutenant who had died of an illness two months ago, not long after the picture was taken.”

Sherlock looked at her in surprise.

“Then why are you here, madam?” he asked.

“Because I am not going to be taken for a fool, Mr. Holmes!” she said sharply. “Back home in the great state of Texas I am a school-teacher, and I have been lied to by the best. I have had boys who have stared at me unblinking and denied hitting someone, then did not even have the decency to blush when I told them that I had actually seen them do it! That man was hiding something, and I want Elizabeth to know the truth. I told her what the idiot said but I made it quite clear that I did not believe a word of it!”

“You do understand that my investigations may only serve to confirm the death?” Sherlock said.

“They will not”, she said with an absolute certainty. “Anyway I must go now. My card. You will inform me of your progress in this matter.”

She nodded to us, placed her card on the table and headed for the door, hopefully missing my slight sigh of relief that she was departing and had not simp.....

_Oh come on! Right in the damn doorway?_

“Quite a character!” Sherlock smiled, with something that was dangerous close to a smirk. 

I just glared at him.

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If Miss Holston Radley-Barnham made a less than favourable impression, then the same could not be said of her friend upon whom we waited the following day. Miss Elizabeth Woodhouse was clearly mortified when she understood why we were there, and it took all of Sherlock's persuasive abilities to calm her down.

“I do wish that Holly had not called you in”, she said apologetically. “She is such a force of nature when she gets an idea into her head; I always find it easier just to go along with her. Though I shall miss her when she returns to the United States in the New Year.”

I almost felt sorry for our cousins across the Pond, but then they had unleashed that harridan on us in the first place. And Texas was a large state – the largest, if I remembered correctly – so there were surely some parts out of the woman's screeching distance.

Sherlock looked at me knowingly. That was still annoying and all!

“Your friend did not believe Lieutenant Anderson when he told her that his colleague had died”, he said. “May I venture to ask _your_ opinion on the subject, Miss Woodhouse?”

She sighed.

“I know that I am being silly and melodramatic”, she said, “but the moment I saw that photograph I wanted to know more of that poor man. He looked so handsome and so…. I know that it is an odd thing to say but so _sad_. As if the cares of the whole world were on his shoulders.”

I honestly feared that she was about to start crying. We seemed to have gone from one end of the female spectrum to the other. Men were far more emotionally steady, thank the Lord.

“Is the photograph still on display in the window?” Sherlock asked, smiling for some reason. She shook her head.

“It has been removed”, she said sadly. “I presume that after Holly spoke to Lieutenant Anderson he must have asked for it to be taken down; the photographs either side of it are still there.”

Sherlock nodded, and thought for some little time.

“I am going to investigate the matter of this photograph, Miss Woodhouse”, he said eventually. “Something about it feels wrong and I would like to know the truth, if only to satisfy my own curiosity. I shall of course keep both you and Miss Radley-Barnham fully informed of any developments, but in all fairness I must warn you as I warned her that it may be that Lieutenant Anderson was indeed speaking the truth when he said his colleague had died.”

“I do not think that he was”, she said quietly, “if only because Holly is usually right on these things. But I would admit that that may just be wishful thinking on my part. Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

I smiled. At least as she was going all gooey-eyed over some sad-looking soldier in a photograph, she would not be simpering at.....

_I give up!_

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“We are going to need to call in the services of Randall on this”, Sherlock said once we were in the cab headed back to Baker Street, his not-smirk as annoying as ever. “I need to see that photograph in order to make any progress and I feel sure that Lieutenant Anderson would not co-operate if approached.”

“How are you going to get him to show you the photograph, then?” I asked.

He smiled.

“I know a little about the photography business”, he said. “The shop owner may have handed his customer the print but he will retain the negative in case the lieutenant required any further copies. We shall just have to persuade him to part with it.”

“You think that your brother can persuade him?” I asked dubiously.

“Randall does not 'do' persuasion”, he grinned. “He just takes.”

I suspected that he was right.

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Two days later Sherlock received a photograph in the post along with a note from his brother. He shook his head when he read it.

“Apparently Randall chose to have some of his men break into the shop to obtain the negative, then break back in the next night to replace it”, he said. “I would wager that the idea of using more conventional means did not even occur to him!”

I looked at the photograph that was at the centre of our case. It showed four Army lieutenants; one sat in the very centre, two more stood either side of him and a fourth lurking to the right looking almost apologetic at being there, much as Miss Radley-Barnham had said. That, presumably, had to be the object of Miss Elizabeth Woodhouse's affections. Frankly he was not much to look; about twenty-five years of age and possibly with some foreign ancestry judging from his face.

“They are four men in the King's army”, I said disappointedly. “It does not show much.”

Sherlock grinned.

“On the contrary”, he said. “It shows rather a lot.”

“I do not see it”, I said, not in a complaining tone.

“I would draw your attention to two things”, he said. “The unusual pallor on the fourth man's face, and his nose.”

“What about his nose?” I asked exasperatedly.

“I think a visit to the shop owner is called for”, Sherlock said. “I will need your medical expertise to back me up. I may have to stretch the truth just a little.”

I did not believe those last three words at all. And before you say it, I was about to be proven right in my cynicism!

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The shop in question was Watkin & Sons, Professional Photographers. Inside we were met by a bearded fellow of about forty years of age who introduced himself as the owner, Mr. Edward Watkin. 

“I would rather have the conversation that we are about to undertake in private, if you do not mind”, Sherlock said carefully. “It is not something that I believe you would wish one of your valued customers to walk in on.”

The fellow looked understandably nervous but after exchanging a few words with his employee he guided us out to a small office in the back. Once we were all seated Sherlock began.

“I wish you to understand the utter seriousness of this conversation, Mr. Watkin”, he said severely. “I am representing the British government in a most important and delicate matter and we may be dealing with the very _gravest_ of consequences. Not just the ruination of your business which I suppose might be considered of some small import, but death and panic on an unimaginable scale.”

The man was already beginning to sweat.

“I do not understand”, he said.

“It concerns a photograph that you took some two to three months ago”, Sherlock said. “I really hope that you can remember it for your own sake. It was commissioned by one Lieutenant James Anderson; it featured himself and three of his fellow officers.”

The man frowned.

“This is not about that awful woman who went to see him, is it?” he asked. “Because if it is.....”

“This is about your certain ruination if you keep interrupting me!” Sherlock snapped, which was quite unlike him. “My time is my own and I am putting myself at risk by coming here today. Now listen!”

The man shrank back before his anger. Sherlock was terrifying when roused, as I (and my backside) knew well full. And the photographer really could have invested in some padded seats.

“This does concern the fourth soldier in that photograph though not for any good reason”, Sherlock said, nodding slightly for some reason. “Certainly not to do with that dratted American female whose involvement in the case is a complication that we could well have done without. The sooner she goes back to her homeland the better as far as I am concerned, let alone my ear-drums could benefit from the extra peace and quiet. Now, as a photographer you would have had to stand close to these people to put them into the correct positions before taking the photograph. When you took this particular picture, did you notice anything unusual about that fourth soldier?”

The photographer hesitated.

“A blanched face, perhaps?” Sherlock prompted.

“Yes”, the fellow said. “And I thought that he seemed very nervous. He did not like me standing close to him.”

Sherlock sighed.

“That is unsurprising”, he said. “I only wish that we had been able to contact Lieutenant Anderson directly, but for obvious reasons we cannot.”

“Why not?” the photographer asked.

Sherlock leaned forward.

“Mr. Watkin”, he said gravely, “there is a very strong likelihood that when he visited your shop that day the fourth man in that fateful photograph was in the early stages of a most horrible and deadly disease that he had contracted from the regiment's time in India. It has an unusually long gestation period – about three months, is that not right doctor?”

He looked at me for support.

“Indeed”, I said. “Three months is the norm.”

“Then, and only then, it becomes highly infectious”, Sherlock said. “In terms of fatalities it is not far behind the terrible Black Death. Fortunately it only tends to spread to others once that period is elapsed.” He looked around the office before adding ominously, _“most_ of the time.”

The photographer was clearly close to a panic attack.

“You are saying that my shop – I – could be infected?” he gasped.

“There is a treatment”, Sherlock said, “but as so often with medicine these days there is also a problem. Like the Black Death this disease has two forms, in this case a severe one and a mild one. The application of the wrong treatment to a person could even kill them. We desperately need to track down this fellow and find out which strain he has.”

“But what about me?” the photographer demanded.

“Once we ascertain the illness we can then decide upon the treatment”, Sherlock said. “If it is the mild strain then there is no risk of contagion; indeed that manifests itself as little more than a common cold, sometimes with a sore throat. But a blanched face like you describe.... that does _not_ bode well. Not well at all!”

“I shall fetch my records at once!” the photographer said, almost falling out of his chair in his eagerness to help. 

He all but ran from the room. I looked at Sherlock sharply.

“'Infectious disease'?” I asked. “What if he talks?”

“You mean, tell everyone that they could catch something horrible by coming into his shop?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow at me. “It would be the ruination of his business. No, he will not talk.”

He really was a devious bastard! _And he could stop nodding like that!_

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Apart from Lieutenant Anderson the others in the picture turned out to be Lieutenants Bellingham, Feilding and Addleford, the last of these being the target of our inquiry. A week passed and although Sherlock did not ostensibly do much with regard to the case I knew that he was up to something. He was receiving regular reports from somebody by telegram each evening and he seemed generally satisfied with their content. 

It was exactly a week after the trip to the shop that he surprised me at dinner one evening.

“I think that we might go down to Biddleston Hall tomorrow and conclude this case”, he said. 

“Where is that?” I asked.

“Lieutenant Anderson's house in the country, in west Norfolk”, he said. “I suspect that we may find the mysterious Lieutenant Addleford there too.”

“He is not dead then?” I asked. 

“Not exactly”, he said to my evident mystification. “But I know who he really is, or was. I can also make a guess as to why Carl tells me that there is no record of him on the army pay-roll, although if I am right the case will require some delicate handling.”

“There is no danger?” I asked warily.

“Lieutenant Anderson may be annoyed at what we have discovered but I hope that I can make him see that it is all for the best”, he said. “I fear however that it will not be easy. He has acted in what he sees as just cause, with some reason in his case, so it may be hard to persuade him otherwise.”

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I was still working on my writings that evening when Sherlock went to bed and I muttered that I would not be long as I was wrestling with a particularly tricky part of my story concerning the 'disappearance' of Lady Frances Carfax. After some effort I had the story the way I wanted it and put my papers away before going to my room to undress. Then I slipped across to Sherlock's room slowly pushing the door open. He was laid on the bed reading, wearing those black-framed square reading-glasses of his.

And nothing else! Six foot of gloriously naked man, all mine!

I may have let out a whimper of happiness judging from the faint quirk to his lips but he ignored me and carried on with his book. I frowned and moved to the side of the bed, kneeling down before starting to kiss his ankle which I knew was one of the spots that turned him on. He shuddered slightly but did not put his book down although I noted there were definite stirrings further up.

Clearly I would have to up my game here. I moved round to kiss his other ankle before working my way slowly up his left leg to where his cock was now at full mast and leaking pre-come. Not wanting to make things easy for him I switched my attentions to his left hand, gently removing it from his book and kissing each finger before taking it into my mouth then working my way up his muscled arm. He growled but continued to read his book which I could now see was one about bees. No way was I coming second to that!

I replaced his left hand and transferred the book to it before giving his right hand the same treatment and working my way up his right arm before nuzzling into his neck. I gently bit a love-bite into his glorious neck – not one that would last unlike the ones he loved to leave on me (and that I loved to have) – then ran my fingers through his hair making it even more of a mess.

“Love you”, I whispered. I was always a little amazed as to how easy those words came when I was with Sherlock. But then he had a way of making everything easy. I nibbled my way across his chest then sucked gently at first one nipple and then the other. He moaned and his book finally fell away. I grinned in triumph....

…. until he flipped me with his inhuman strength and stared down hungrily at me. I was already hard, but the sight of my lover naked except for those glasses and towering over me was wonderful. He felt around my entrance, and raised an eyebrow when he found the plug,

“You prepared yourself”, he growled. _“Good boy!”_

I had little time to revel in his praise before he removed the plug and began thrusting in, easing home with practised skill and, bastard that he was, deliberately ignoring my prostate. I writhed on the bed beneath him but he held me down easily with his hips alone his arms supporting his weight as he arched his back above me. My muscles felt like jelly and he must have taken pity on me for he suddenly reached down and pulled my legs up, striking my prostate full-on. I cried with happiness wishing both that this could last forever and yet that I could come. The latter happened within seconds and my eruption took Sherlock over the edge with me before he tumbled on top of me, smearing my come into both our chests. 

We lay there for some little time before he peeled himself back off of me and wiped us both down. Only then did he slowly pull out and cu... edge himself up against me holding me in a manly embrace as we both fell asleep, broken and exhausted. I was so damn lucky!

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After breakfast – and more sex-with-Sherlock-wearing-glasses – we took a cab to Liverpool Street Station and a Great Eastern Railway train all the way to King’s Lynn. From there it was on to the Midland & Great Northern Railway, and a positively antiquated train over which I had serious doubts. However the elderly locomotive moved a lot faster than it had looked capable of and it was not long before we were pulling into Biddleston Halt. The Hall could clearly be seen to the south of the nearby village so we walked the short distance in the pleasant autumn sunshine.

Lieutenant Anderson was at home and received us graciously enough, inquiring at to the purpose of our visit.

“That is somewhat difficult to explain”, Sherlock said. “It concerns a certain photograph that was taken of you and two of your fellow officers.”

The man’s expression did not change but I definitely saw him tense. I wondered also at the use of the word 'two'.

“What is your interest in that, may I ask?” he said cautiously.

“I was wondering if you knew, sir, that you had perpetrated a criminal offence?”

The soldier had clearly not been expecting that. 

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Misrepresentation of a person as a member of the British Army is an offence punishable by time in gaol”, Sherlock said gravely. “Not only that, those aiding and abetting the crime also attract a penalty, especially if they are in the armed forces themselves.”

“What do you want?” the lieutenant ground out.

“I wish to know the full story of 'Lieutenant Addleford'”, Sherlock said. “It is only fair that I tell you I know who he really is, or at least I know his origins. I also know why you did what you did that day.” 

The soldier sighed and sat back heavily.

“I suppose that there is no harm in telling you”, he said. “But I warn you, it is hard to believe. Even for me, and I have the damn papers to prove the whole sorry mess!”

He took a deep breath.

“My father married my mother when they were both very young”, he said. “It was a happy marriage but there were no children, and once he passed forty years of age he became increasingly anxious to secure the dynasty. There have been Andersons at Biddleston since the thirteenth century, you see. Father also disliked Philip, his brother and potential heir, intensely; with good reason I might add. Finally when she was forty-three my mother became pregnant with me; I was born over a month early and she died of complications soon afterwards.

“My father died four years ago and I cherish the facts that I made lieutenant shortly and had three sons of my own to secure the dynasty before he passed on. Except that in his will I learned that he left me a somewhat unexpected bequest.”

“What was it?” I asked.

“A half-brother!”

It sounds like a cliché to say that it was only at that moment I became aware just how loud the tick of the grandfather clock in the corner was, yet it was true. I stared at our host in shock. Sherlock of course was unruffled.

“Mr. Hector Addleford”, he said. “ _'Eterothalis adelphos'_ being the Greek for 'half brother'.”

Our host nodded.

“Father had had an affair with an Indian woman about two years after I was born”, he said. “George and Tom – the other men in the picture – they knew and managed things for him so that I would not find out. He had been named Hector. partly because of the half-brother thing and partly because my father loved Ancient Greek tales, and he had had the best education that money could buy. When Father died I had to be told.”

“What did you do?” Sherlock asked softly.

“I was lucky”, he said. “My time over there was almost up and I was allowed to return early to sort out the estate. I went to Hector and persuaded him to come to England with me.”

“Wait a minute”, I protested. “The soldier that Miss Woodhouse was interested in was white!”

“Miss Woodhouse?” the lieutenant asked, confused. “Is she the friend of that harridan who descended on me in London that time?”

I did not bother to suppress the smile.

“My client is Miss Elizabeth Woodhouse”, Sherlock explained, “who saw your half-brother in a picture and had somewhat strong feelings as a result. Her formidable and excessively loud friend Miss Holston Radley-Barnham was the lady who spoke _at_ you. The doctor and I endured the same experience.”

“You have my sympathies”, the lieutenant said. “I was most alarmed by her forthrightness and I admit that I did lie to her about his passing, if only to get her to go away. Far, far away! But this Miss Woodhouse – you must correct her at once.”

“Correct her about what?” I asked.

“Theatrics”, Sherlock said as if that explained everything. 

“How did you know?” Lieutenant Anderson asked.

“Several things”, Sherlock said. “Your half-brother is what is unfairly still referred to as 'a half-caste', and applying theatrical face powder completed the illusion of a white officer. Why did you misrepresent him like that, may I ask?”

“Hector always wanted to be in the army”, our host explained, “but he has something wrong with his principal arm which means that he cannot fire a gun. We played this charade for him, little knowing just what trouble it might bring us.”

“Your nose!” I blurted out. 

Lieutenant Anderson looked at me in surprise. 

“Pardon?” he said, clearly nonplussed. I blushed fiercely.

“Another of the clues was that both you and your half-brother inherited the aquiline nose from a common ancestor”, Sherlock said. “Your grandfather judging from the portrait in the entrance-hall.”

The man nodded and leaned forward.

“I must urge you to see my position, gentlemen”, he said. “I have had no trouble accepting Hector as my blood; indeed I intend to drag him to the next county ball for his sins to make it as official as possible. But your Miss Woodhouse has fallen in love with a fantasy, a handsome white soldier with foreign looks. Hector is not dark-skinned but I am sure that she would be shocked to see what he is really like.”

“I rather think that you underestimate her”, Sherlock said. “But of course you could always explain things to her friend if you wished? We could even arrange for her to come up here.”

The lieutenant looked terrified at that prospect. I silently thought that he would probably rather return to India and face some of the fiercer native tribes there. Come to that, so would I!

“Absolutely not!” he said firmly, blanching at the prospect. “If that dratted woman comes anywhere near this place I am reaching for my shotgun, diplomatic niceties be damned! But if Hector agrees then I shall invite Miss Woodhouse up for the day – provided that she promises not to bring her loud friend! – and we shall see what we shall see.”

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See it we did. Lieutenant Anderson’s fears proved less than groundless, and Miss Woodhouse made it clear to his half-brother that his skin colour interested her marginally less than the average July rainfall figures for northern Outer Mongolia. They were married at the end of the following year, emigrated to live near her American friend a few months after that and had their first child in 1906. 

Eleven months to go.

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	5. Case 349: The Adventure Of The Wonderful Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1903\. Poor John Watson. Trust history to repeat itself in the worst way possible as he and Sherlock travel back to Cornwall and go beyond the end of the line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Mousehole is pronounced 'mow-zul' and Marazion 'marraz-eye-on'.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

There were two happenings in the short period between All Hallow's Day and Guy Fawkes's Night that year, one good and one bad. First the good which involved my dear friend Benji, or as John called him 'that leering fellow who came over far too often'. Benji was certainly prodigious; in the autumn of the previous year his wife Bertha had given birth to twin girls (Sarah and Jane) and now she was pregnant again with what would be their twentieth (and, as it turned out almost certainly to her relief, last) child. I knew that Luke had helped the family financially especially after he had become godson to 'Luke The Second' (number sixteen) three years back. I had helped Benji's eldest son and namesake get onto the teaching course that he had been after and his second boy William was now applying to join the Army. John of course had provided free medical treatment to them all and that particular day he was called round to Bertha who had gone into labour some two weeks before her due day. Fortunately he was able to safely deliver her of a son whom they called Stafford (Bertha's mother's maiden name) although I know that the fight to save both mother and child took a lot out of my love. 

John had barely a dozen regular patients at this time and he still helped out at his old surgery at busy times, although regrettably I had once again had to have Words with the managers there who, I had come to suspect, were having rather too many 'busy times' in which they needed their most renowned doctor. Their demands had slackened off after that but two days after the advent of Master Stafford Jackson-Giles my love had been involved in another difficult birth and this time he had lost the mother and, despite his best efforts, her baby too. Such things affected even a professional like him – I knew how much because he would always come home and give me the sort of look that said he wanted nothing more than some of the manly embracing thing that I loved and that he sort of tolerated. If we spent the evening with my taller form resting naked on the top of his shorter but more solid one while we dozed and talked in front of the fire, well, why not? We were not young any more and we had done more than enough to deserve some time to ourselves.

What did concern me however was that John did not seem to snap out of his 'funk' as he called it. I started to grow anxious about him.... and I was not the only one.

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I was more than a little suspicious when, only moments after my love had been called out to one of the 'boys' at Mr. Godfreyson's molly-house, John's least favourite Cornish ex-fisherman chanced to call by. Lowen clearly saw my cynicism and nodded as he sat down.

“You know that Blaze came up to London yesterday?” he said.

“Yes”, I smiled. “It was very good of him and Rachael to visit Mother, although perhaps not the best timing as she had just finished one of her stories. 'Family Ties', the one about the brothers who made up a tug-of-war team.”

“That does not sound too bad”, he said.

“Carl told me just where they tied the ropes”, I sighed. “I am not speaking to him as a result. I may also have passed on some of your ideas to Danny, so it will serve my brother right if he is unable to walk in the next few days as a result!”

He chuckled at that.

“Blaze also called in on me and my Italian stallions”, he said. “He said that he had run into Doctor Watson and that he looked very miserable. Has something happened?”

“He lost two patients”, I explained. “Worse, a mother and her newborn daughter, and he had thought that he was close to saving the girl.”

My visitor nodded.

“I asked around the boys”, he said, “and a couple of them also said he had been down when he tended to them although he did not tell them why. I have an idea that may help.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“You have met Blaze, Hedrek and Jago”, he said, “so you know by now that we Trevelyans are a mixed bunch. I have one other brother, Kenal, and a younger sister, Mona. She stayed in Cornwall and married a Mr. James Penmarrick, a bit of a dolt but a decent enough fellow for a lawyer. They both live in Penzance where his business is but his eldest son, my nephew Day, lives in Mousehole – spelled 'mouse-hole' but that is Cornish for you – a village some miles south of the town, and he is in this campaign group about the new omnibus service that the Great Western Railway is starting up.”

I blinked at that.

“Your nephew is called _Day?”_ I asked, surprised.

“Another Cornish name”, he said. “There is a village called St. Day up near Camborne. You see, the railway company did consider extending the main line but is instead starting an omnibus service between Marazion, which lies east of Penzance, and Newlyn which lies a few miles north of Mousehole.”

“The people of Mousehole wish the bus service to be extended to them?” I asked. To my surprise he shook his head.

“They most definitely do not!” he said firmly. “Not just because there has always been a rivalry between the two villages, but because they think their part of the world would lose its unique character. No-one passes through Mousehole on the road to anywhere, but better transport links to the outside world would surely draw people away as we have see elsewhere. Then there is the history; Marazion and Mousehole used to be the chief ports before Penzance took over. Old enmities die hard in the country, as I am sure you have seen in your travels.”

I supposed that that was true. And I had seen in our Presteign case with Mr. Dai Davies just what the late arrival of the railway could do to a place.

“How might this help me with John?” I asked.

He grinned devilishly.

“Day lives in a small cottage just beyond the southern edge of the village”, he smiled. “We all know how the dear doctor is always worried about his age, especially just now when he is in his fifties while the man that he loves is not. So this is what I suggest....”

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Hence a few days later John and I decamped to Paddington Station for the long journey all the way to Penzance at the furthest point west of God's Wonderful Railway; a certain hazel-eyed someone had once very unfairly suggested that I liked this company because they clearly shared my utter lack of modesty! Normally a long train journey anywhere in England (and sometimes even a short one) would have been cause for the sort of activities which would have had a certain English city doctor staggering out of his compartment at the end of his journey in need of a lie-down, but I did not suggest such a thing just now. Instead he just leaned into me and we relaxed as the train set off.

“You have not told me anything about the case yet”, he pointed out.

This was going to be interesting. I braced myself.

“Lowen has asked me to help out a family member”, I said carefully.

He tensed up at once and looked sharply at me.

“It cannot be Blaze”, he said warily. Like me he had a high regard for the silent behemoth who had married the lady unfortunate enough to have had my brother Mycroft as her first husband, a mistake that Blaze and I had eventually managed to help her rectify. 

“He and Rachael are very happy up in Wells”, I said. I had recently assisted the couple in securing them a house on the North Norfolk coast where they were very happy together.

“Not that other one, Jago or Jack whatever he calls himself?”, he said, trying and failing to keep the jealousy out of his voice.

“No, their nephew who goes by the unusual name of Mr. Day Penmarrick”, I said, suppressing a smile at his reaction. “He works as a fisherman in the Cornish port of Mousehole some miles south of Penzance, and people there are concerned that the new Great Western omnibus service linking Newlyn to the town might be extended to them.”

“New transport links do not always bring benefits”, he agreed. “We have seen that several times.”

“Now we have somewhere else that does not want to join the modern world any time soon”, I smiled. “One cannot turn back the tide of progress, but perhaps one can divert it for a while. Let us see what we can do.”

My love suddenly realized something.

“I did not see Mr. Trevelyan come round”, he said suspiciously.

“You just missed him when you went out to treat Stewie and Ned”, I said.

He clearly put two and two together there and wondered if he had been gotten out of the way for a visit from his least favourite Cornish ex-fisherman (he almost certainly had been). Then he sighed and nestled back into my side, wrapping a possessive arm around me. I really should get round to mentioning that the Cornish ex-fisherman he so loathed had been in a steady relationship with Salerio and Solario at the house for some years now, so he had no need to be jealous at all.

I looked at my love's normally light hazel eyes now dark with jealousy, and decided that I would indeed get round to it. Some day.

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On arriving at Penzance we went out onto the station forecourt to find two horse-drawn 'buses waiting for us. Steam-powered road vehicles were coming into use at that time but they were still slow and unreliable, and doubtless the Great Western Railway was waiting to see if the route paid enough before indulging in that sort of expenditure. We got on board the Newlyn omnibus which was almost empty; the Marazion one was about one-quarter full.

“Did we not pass through a station at Marazion?” John asked.

“Yes”, I said, “but it is a couple of miles from the centre of the village. You know what station names are like, often far from the places that they purport to serve. The service probably also provides for those who need to come into Penzance and shop; even with one horse-power it is better than walking especially if one is to be returning with bags of shopping.”

It was almost dark on that cold November day and John moved instinctively closer to me.

“I do not think that there is much danger of this service being extended on to Mousehole if they can only get four passengers including us off the London express”, I said, “But we have some time here to monitor things, so we shall see if the numbers improve.”

He nodded and contrived to move even closer to me. I smiled.

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Mr. Day Penmarrick's cottage was ideally placed, within easy walking distance of the village yet set on a small headland with a screen of trees that gave it privacy (he had very obligingly moved into rooms at the local tavern, where he was dating the landlord's daughter). The following day we walked down to the village to meet the first omnibus of the day, and saw an unimpressive one passenger alight. At least there was a one hundred per cent increase in the number of people going the other way!

“I told Lowen that I would give a letter from him to his nephew”, I said. “He works on a boat here so we shall have to ask which one.”

John did not pout at the mention of the fellow's name but followed me as we went into a small quayside office and asked after Mr. Day Penmarrick. We were fortunate; he was undertaking some repairs to the 'Saucy Jane' and we were told it was had a black hull with a thick white stripe along the side. It proved easy to find, as did Mr. Penmarrick.

I had not thought to ask Lowen for a physical description of his nephew, but as it turned out I had not needed to. A quarter of a century since John and I had walked along another Cornish harbour in rather less pleasant circumstances (Hugh Town; The Adventure of the Repellent Philanthropist), and young Mr. Penmarrick was the image of his uncle from back then. A wiry fellow whose hair was almost as blond-white as his relative's, he greeted us affably and thanked me for bringing him the letter. He also leered at me just like Lowen had done all those years ago, again to the clear annoyance of someone in the vicinity who seemed to have developed a sudden cough.

John's annoyance only increased when Day discovered that I could speak Cornish and we conversed in that ancient tongue. The fact he kept looking at my beloved while doing this probably accounted for the increasingly unhappy growling I could hear, and when he reached over to pat me on the shoulder John visibly seethed. 

“I do not know why we came down here!” he grumbled as we relaxed after a light meal at a quayside tavern. “Especially with another damn leering Cornish fisherman on hand.”

“He offered to take me out on his boat tomorrow”, I said idly, silently enjoying the murderous look that that remark elicited. “I would not of course ask you to come; we know how easily you get sea-sick. He very generously said that he would show me how to land a _big_ catch.”

I might well be investigating my own murder from beyond the grave from the look he was giving me just now!

“I did bring a few of our playthings down from London just in case you felt in the mood”, I said casually, “but maybe some quiet time would suit us just now. Besides, if the weather is really good then Day and I can go.....”

He rose sharply to his feet.

“Cottage!” he snarled. “Now!”

I feigned surprise, quickly finished my drink and hurried away with him in hot pursuit. Success!

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We returned (raced back) to the house on a Tuesday; I had provisionally reserved a first-class compartment back to London a week thence. I was sure that we might find some way to fill the time – and that first Tuesday John filled me repeatedly! One of the things he did when he was jealous (and that I loved) was to sleep with his bulkier if slightly shorter form on top of mine, as if he was afraid that I might disappear in some way. As if I would ever want to do such a thing!

Also I was not sure that I could walk that much just now!

On Wednesday we had sex in every room in the cottage – he should have known better to challenge me to do It in the airing-cupboard – and after dinner we had sex in the stream out the back which was hilarious as John clearly felt the cold but was determined to take me anyway.

Late on Thursday he actually fell asleep while impaling me in the bath, which embarrassed him horribly. I could see that he was flagging so while he was using the bathroom I covertly raised the Cornish flag on the flagpole outside.

Come Friday morning it 'just chanced' that Mr. Day Penmarrick called by – seriously, could he have found a skimpier set of vest and shorts? – and was visibly eager to come into the house to check up on us. Just as John was visibly determined to block his way, even if he had to lean on the doorpost throughout their conversation. When I remarked how 'handsome' and 'fit' the _young_ fellow looked – it was straight back to the bedroom for me. Via the landing; a little rug-burn was worth his satisfied look as he staked his claim on me once more. 

The weekend, and on Saturday as on almost every other day we were naked all day – out of courtesy for our host I had made sure we had had dressing-gowns on the day before – and I fetched John a chocolate cake from the local bakery, which was nice of me. 

As if you even have to ask; it did not survive to see the Sabbath. Come to that, so barely did I!

On Sunday John carried me up and down the stairs while impaling me on his cock, and we spent virtually the whole day with him inside of me. It was wonderful being able to make him come by applying pressure to certain sensitive areas of his that I knew so well, but I did not abuse that knowledge. Well, not too much.

The rest of the Sabbath was spent mostly sleeping, which John wrapped around me still occasionally growling about tolerably passable-looking Cornishmen who wanted what was his. I made sure that I only smirked when I knew he could not see me, but somehow he knew that I was doing it anyway, which made him cross. Which.... you get it. 

So did I!

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On Monday morning what was left of me hobbled very slowly back down to the village. Thank the Lord (and Lowen) that the cottage had been fully stocked for our time there; it had saved us precious time and what would have been some painfully long walks to get food. Judging from the look that someone was giving me as we waited for the 'bus, that first-class compartment was going to be well-used on our return home. As was I!

I managed to slip away from John to use the bathroom in the local tavern, and used that time to slip out the back and meet Day so that I could pay him for his 'services'. If we strode back in chatting like old friends who had 'just happened' to meet up, the furious look on John's face said that I would be regretting that very soon.

As the French say, _je ne regrette rien!_

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It was two days after our return to Baker Street that John suddenly asked me something.

“The omnibus service?” he said.

“The Great Western Railway is not that impressed with the Newlyn route”, I said. “They have told me that they will discontinue it if it does not pick up soon.”

He looked at me suspiciously.

“Just when did they tell you that?” he demanded.

“Distraction sex?” I grinned.

“I am not that predictable”, he said.

“Distraction sex when I will let you eat the Branksome's éclairs that I bought you off my naked chest while....”

He was already racing to our room.

Ten months to go.

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Postscriptum: The service to Newlyn did not last long, barely seeing in the new year, although it was replaced by one to St. Just and Land's End. The Marazion service was discontinued in 1916, and under government pressure the Great Western Railway Company divested itself of its omnibus services between 1929 and 1933. 

Not long after our trip west I may or may not have paid for Mr. Day Penmarrick to come to London to see his brother, and to call in on us 'while he was in the area'. John did not take his visit at all well......

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	6. Case 350: The Adventure Of The Three Gables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1903\. Shock horror, as Sherlock is separated from John – but thankfully only for a few days. Of course the detective has to go and have a case in that short time, then races against the clock to sort matters out so he can go North to join his beloved.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Something had changed. 

As I looked around our rooms, I felt a certain wistfulness that what we had had here was coming to an end. John and I were still happy together in Baker Street, but somehow we were beginning to mentally disengage from the place in favour of that wonderful cottage on the downs. It was strange having ties to two houses at the same time as we moved towards an exciting future that would hopefully be trouble-free, especially as I would have John all the time now. In those wonderful super-reinforced beds!

Apart from those two terrible three-year periods when he and I had been parted – six horrible, empty years that it pains me I can never have back or make amends for – barely a case went by in which he did not accompany me. I know how much it hurt him (despite the many times that he denied it) when people commented that he was there solely as my biographer, bringing my many successes to the wider public. Even if we were parted for but a few hours I could feel myself aching at his absence, knowing that something fundamental in my life was not there. 

I had thought that we would see out that final year with no more times apart, but in December of our last full year in Baker Street events transpired to cause me to undertake a case while separated from him. _I completely and utterly hated it!_ Coming back to our rooms every day knowing that they would be cold and empty without the man I loved made those dark December days seem ever darker. But a promise is a promise and I am a man of my word.

Mostly.

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I had been undertaking what had been an initially interesting case concerning a middle-ranking political figure on behalf of Randall that autumn, which had been dragging on since late September and was now some way past becoming tiresome. This was galling as John and I had been invited to York for the festive season as his brother Stephen had just moved there where he was responsible for running the new offices of his company (I may have helped with that move ever so slightly). John was I knew greatly looking forward to spending Christmas with his brother and his family as well as the further opportunity to explore that ancient city, but as our departure date approached this bothersome case dragged on and on. 

I could see how torn John was. Part of him wanted to see his brother and his family but part did not want to be separated from me. When it became clear that I would have to remain ‘on call’ for much of the last month of the year I finally snapped and had a blazing row with Randall, during which much was said that should not have been said. He accused me of putting my own interests first and I reminded him of the many times that I had helped him out at my own expense and often at danger to my own person. It ended with me forcibly removing him from Baker Street and telling him not to show his face there ever again no matter what. I do not think that I have ever been so angry with him, and given his dreadful track record that said a lot!

Of course my beloved John, who had little enough reason to like Randall, played the peacemaker and with the help of my dear sister effected at least a temporary reconciliation. I grudgingly agreed that I would stay in London until the twenty-first but not a day longer, and if the case dragged on beyond that date it could become someone else’s problem. I knew that John had wanted to spend at least two weeks before the holy day in the North so I pressed him to go ahead as planned, assuring him that nothing would keep me from leaving on the twenty-second and being with him in York three days before Christmas. We had a sorrowful parting on the twelfth and I returned to a cold and empty Baker Street, knowing that it would be ten long days before I would see him again.

That night in our cold and empty bed, I cried.

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It was perhaps typical that a solitary case arose during that dark time when I did not have my love, my heart, my all with me. I would not have let myself get involved had not the fellow requesting my aid come to Baker Street expecting to see John. His name was Mr. Stuart Ireland and he was a lawyer hailing originally from North Shields in Northumberland. John had struck up a friendship with the fellow during his visit to Bargate, the long-vanished college where I had met him back in 1874. Mr. Ireland had also worked with John's brother Stephen on some cases so the reedy blond fellow had a double claim on my time.

“This is really most vexatious”, the lawyer said, taking off and polishing his wire-rimmed spectacles. “I had so hoped that John would help me enlist your aid, although I should have remembered that he does occasionally visit his brother. I suppose that I ought to have telegraphed ahead, but I considered the matter most urgent.”

“I should have been with him”, I said, “but I am delayed here for a rather important case although it will definitely be concluded by next Monday. I am awaiting news before I may or may not have to do something, so I have some time free. Is it anything that I could help you with?”

He looked at me uncertainly.

“I do not know if five days will be enough”, he said. “It is all rather bizarre, almost supernatural, although I myself fear that more earthly forces are behind it all.”

“Pray tell me about it”, I urged. After all this was John’s friend. I owed it to him to do what I could. 

Mr. Ireland took a moment to assemble his thoughts before beginning.

“I moved to London some years back”, he began, “and am now full partner in a successful practice up in Camden Town. This affair concerns a client of mine, an elderly gentleman by the name of Mr. Percy Gable. He owns a large property with copious grounds in Golders Green which is an important part of my story as it is in an area being scheduled for development. You may have read that there was a fuss over the new railway being built up from Charing Cross and Euston over Hampstead Heath which has only just been resolved; because of that there will soon be a railway station near the house† there which will increase the value of Mr. Gable's property still further. I understand that he has already been offered and has rejected several large sums for the place.”

“Mr. Gable had married twice, both wives having predeceased him. His first died after only a short time – an illness, I am not sure what – but his second provided him with some ten children. They were however a sickly brood and only three made it to adulthood, a girl Helen and the boys Aeneas and Troilus. One can only presume that either he or the second Mrs. Gable considered themselves Greek scholars.”

I smiled at that, remembering our recent trip to Derbyshire and the truly dreadful Greek Chorus.

“Mr. Gable is sixty-two now, and in poor health”, the lawyer continued. “I should add that his sons were born ten years apart; they were the eldest and second youngest of his brood. Miss Helen Gable married a bonds trader called Mr. Edmund Cooper but they both died in a train crash some years ago, although they left a young son, David, who is sixteen now. Mr. Gable does not think much of him but the boy has said that he will change his surname to Gable when he comes of age, so I suppose that he will inherit something.”

“Back to Mr. Aeneas who was, I believe the saying is, ‘the apple of his father's eye’. He was charismatic, outgoing and popular with all who knew him. He even took part in competitive athletic events when younger. He married well, but sadly there were no children. It was a great tragedy when he caught a particularly virulent strain of influenza while visiting with a friend in France and died this past January. His father was of course heart-broken.”

“This meant of course that virtually the entire estate devolved upon Mr. Troilus.” The lawyer polished his glasses again and frowned. “I do not wish to speak ill of any person but he is.... rather an unsavoury character. He married poorly, a rich lady of what is most politely described as 'questionable character', and they have their own house in Edgeware. They have three daughters which I privately think Mr. Gable considers a disappointment although he has never said as much. Mr. Troilus rarely if ever visited his father – that was until Mrs. Ophelia Bollinger appeared on the scene.”

I supposed that the three daughters were likely behind young Master Cooper's decision to adopt the Gable name, as he would therefore become the last of the line. And more likely to inherit something.

Even two hundred miles away, someone remained a bad influence on me. An influence I missed more and more each passing day.

“Who is this Mrs. Bollinger?” I asked, dragging myself away from some less than happy thoughts.

“She _claims_ to be a medium and sent a letter to Mr. Gable that his late son was attempting to communicate via the spirit world”, the lawyer said. “Utter hogwash in my humble opinion but unfortunately Mr. Gable is prone to believe such things – as I said, he was very close to poor Aeneas – and he seemed to take some comfort from this. Had it stopped there then all might have been well, but of course it did not.”

“Has the lady asked for money?” I asked.

“I rather think that she is too clever for that”, the lawyer said. “I spoke with Mr. Gable some time ago and he said he had offered her a sum of money merely for expenses which the lady had refused. But that was before the events of last week.”

“Go on”, I said.

“Mr. Troilus is as I have said not the wisest of men”, the lawyer said. “He made the error of telling his father that all this ‘psychic malarkey’ as he called it was utter tripe, and that his brother was as dead as a door-nail. His father did not take it well and retaliated by cutting off all communication with him.”

“Not tactful but understandable”, I said. He nodded.

“I come now to the strange part”, my visitor said. “On the same day that Mr. Troilus confronted his father, Mrs. Bollinger sent him a message in which she warned him that his younger son was trying to prevent their communicating and pleading with him to ignore the fellow. The strange part was that the telegram that Mrs. Bollinger sent was of course timed – to half an hour _before_ Mr. Troilus arrived at the house!”

I thought on that for a moment.

“I can see a way in which that might have been done”, I said, “Has anything else of note occurred?”

“It has”, he said frowning, “and it is most worrisome. I administer Mr. Gable’s estate for him jointly with one Captain William Wulfram, the son of his old army friend. A most reliable gentleman; he quit the army after suffering an eye injury and now works in a bank over in Finsbury Park. He came to me last week, exceedingly worried. Mr. Gable has asked him about selling off his shares and other investments in order to buy jewellery. I am afraid that he means to present Mrs. Bollinger with some or all of it for her ‘efforts’. Then today…..”

He paused and gave a delicate shudder.

“Today Mr. Gable said that after Christmas he intends to rewrite his will”, he said. “I very much fear the worst.”

“I see”, I said. “Well, since you are John’s friend I will do what I can with the case in my remaining few days in the capital. But do not hope for miracles, sir.”

He smiled.

“The way John writes of you”, he said, “I rather do.”

I blushed.

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The obvious next thing to do was to visit Mr. Troilus Gable and see if my hypothesis was correct. His impressively large if rather ugly house was called 'Maryvale', I presumed after his wife who Mr. Ireland had told me had been Miss Mary de Vale before her marriage. I knew that Mr. Gable lived there with their two daughters, one still at school and the other one engaged to be married to a local bank manager. The third was training to be a doctor in London, much to the disapproval of both her father and grandfather.

I have to say that neither Mr. or Mrs. Gable impressed me much. She was built like a battleship and clearly regarded my presence as an intrusion into her realm. He was wearing clothes at least one size too tight which, I supposed, he believed would make him look thinner rather than a man about to burst his buttons. He had also apparently taken a bath in _eau de cologne_ ; I wondered idly if he might go up in flames if he stood too near the fire. One 'accidental' trip.....

John really was a bad influence on me. I so missed him!

“I am investigating a lady who is – I am sure that I can trust your discretion on this matter, sir, madam – on the run”, I said gravely. “I should make clear that she herself has not committed any crime but certain people have, through a most calamitous alignment of the Fates, come to believe that she may have witnessed something quite serious and that it would be preferable to remove her from the earthly realm as a matter of urgency. It is highly unlikely that she would have come to _this_ house of course but we are sure that she came to this area and that she entered domestic service in an attempt to elude her pursuers. I would be grateful if you could tell me whether you have hired any new staff in the past twelve months?”

Mrs. Gable narrowed her eyes at me suspiciously (probably because my hair looked even untidier than usual, the day having been exceptionally windy) but her husband seemed to be accepting of my story.

“Only the one”, he said. “A new housemaid, Lily, started last Christmas.”

“May I have a physical description, please?” I asked. “I would not wish to approach the girl without good reason, or indeed upset your household in any way.”

“She is about twenty-five, plain and thin”, Mrs. Gable said. “Blonde hair and does not wash her hands often enough, but I suppose one has to take what one can get in this day and age. One hopes that she will improve with time, or she will be out.”

It sounded right.

“Then she is not the lady that I am looking for”, I said firmly. “Not unless she has somehow lost twenty years and several stones in weight!”

I looked up as I spoke and noticed for the first time a small photograph of two men standing very stiff. One of them was clearly Mr. Troilus Gable, while the other was a young fellow of about twelve years of age.

“Your son, sir?” I asked gesturing to the picture. He shook his head.

“No, my nephew”, he said. “My late sister's boy David; she and her husband died in a train crash and left me in charge of his upbringing, at least until he is twenty-one. It was taken a few years back.”

“He looks a fine young man”, I offered.

“He is her son all right”, Mr. Gable said stiffly. “Thinks he knows it all!”

Pot, kettle.... damn John!

“Well I must be on my way”, I said, wiping my eyes for some reason. “Thank you for your time today, sir, madam. I shall continue my inquiries elsewhere. Good day.”

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The town of Edgeware was quite small and had only one ladies’ outfitters. The lady at the counter seemed at first mortified that a _gentleman_ would wish to know about such things, even if he was a consulting detective.

“Well we do keep such things, sir”, she admitted looking over her shoulder as if she feared the police were about to raid her premises for such an egregious offence. “But the demand for them is quite low. Indeed we have only sold one to my knowledge in all the years that I have been here. I keep the sales register so I can be sure of that.”

“May I inquire as to whom that was sold?” I asked.

The lady nodded and opened the register, leafing quickly through it until she found what she was looking for.

“Oh yes, that is why I remember it”, she said. “It was a young gentleman with his sister, buying things for their theatre group. He said that it would enable a small lady such as her to play the part of a much larger one. A very nice young couple as I remember.”

She turned the register towards me and I read the name: ‘Mr. John Smith’.

I was not surprised. At least not at that.

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I had visited Edgeware on the Thursday, so on Friday I decided to play a hunch and make a call on the young Mr. David Cooper who lived in nearby Stanmore. If I was correct in what I thought was behind all this, then there was one way that I could be sure. 

Mr. Cooper was pleased to see me although I did wonder whether this had anything to do with my arrival necessitating his removal from a Latin lesson. He was a pleasant enough young fellow although he was unfortunately passing through the phase that so many teenage boys experience when they think that a moustache makes them look older and more serious, and not like a caterpillar had crawled halfway across their upper lip and then died.....

I would be having Words with John when I caught up with him!

“I would like to ask you about a certain lady called Mrs. Bollinger”, I said. “I understand that she is visiting your grandfather then _claiming_ to pass on messages from your late Uncle Aeneas.”

The boy’s face darkened.

“That witch!” he snorted. “She has grandpapa wrapped around her little finger, especially as he doted on my poor uncle. I would do anything to expose her for the liar she really is.”

“Would you?” I asked. “Then perhaps I may be of service to you, sir.”

He looked at me in surprise.

“How?” he asked. 

“I have come across Mrs. Bollinger in the course of my inquiries into another matter, over in Harringay”, I said. “In that case an elderly gentleman rewrote his will in her favour despite her frankly weak protestations against such a move, and she inherited a large sum of money as a result. I had an inquiry in this neighbourhood for another case and I thought that I would do you the courtesy of informing you that I shall speak to your grandfather at the first opportunity.”

“Of course”, he said. “It is important that he knows as soon as possible. Thank you for coming to tell me.”

I looked around the room. 

“This all seems quite pleasant”, I observed. He nodded. “Your grandfather treats you well?”

“Grandpapa sort of said that I had to be Gable rather than a Cooper when I come of age if I wanted to ever inherit anything”, he said. “He cannot make me change my name but I would do it to oblige him as he is a decent fellow, even if he did insist on a private tutor for me. I disagree with my uncle on most things but we are united in stopping that witch from taking advantage of a fine old gentleman!”

“I promise that I will call on your grandfather some time tomorrow morning”, I said. “Not too early as that would be discourteous; I shall time my visit to around eleven.”

He thanked me again for calling and I left. It was almost lunch-time so I adjourned to the nearby town for a surprisingly pleasant meal in a local restaurant before calling in at the local post-office. The postmaster was surprised at my request but acquiesced when he knew who I was. The paper I wrote out was copied and then signed by myself, himself and one of his clerks. I left him a copy before leaving to catch a cab back to a horribly empty Baker Street.

I hated it!

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The following day I set off for Golders Green being careful to time my arrival to just after eleven. I did not expect my reception to be warm – at least not at first – but I hoped that my target would hear me out. It was most definitely in his interests.

Mr. Percy Gable knew my name of course, but when I stated that I had met his lawyer, his face darkened.

“Ireland has no business sticking his nose into what does not concern him”, he said angrily. “He is my lawyer and nothing else.”

“That is unfair, sir”, I said firmly. “He is a good friend to you. If he had not besought himself to approach me for aid, you might well have been duped.”

“I suppose you too think that my dear Mrs. Bollinger is a charlatan, too”, he said with a smirk. “Well Mr. Sherlock Holmes, what would you say if I told you that she was here this morning and told me you were coming?”

He was clearly confident that he had me there. I smiled knowingly.

“I would say, sir, that my prophesying powers exceeded her own!” 

I took out the paper that I had written the day before and placed it on the table before him.

“This”, I said, “is my own set of predictions made yesterday. You will see that I foretold Mrs. Bollinger would indeed arrive before me this morning and would warn you not to listen to what I had to say. This was signed and witnessed by both the Stanmore postmaster and his clerk, and you will see that he did me the courtesy of including both the time and date with an official post-office stamp. I do not think I need to tell you, sir, that those are _not_ handed out lightly.”

He looked at me in astonishment.

“How could you have known that?” he demanded.

“I used my abilities, such as they are, rather than any psychic powers”, I said. “I began by looking for motive because criminals are, mercifully, not prone to do their evil deeds without reason. The arrival of Mrs. Bollinger upset four people; your son, grandson, and the two gentlemen administering your estate. I decided that your blood had more to gain so I focussed on them.”

“My son would never do anything like that!” the old man said hotly.

“It was your son who appeared to have the most to lose”, I went on. “His house is full of expensive items, and even allowing for his wife’s wealth he strikes me as the sort of person who would always spend more than whatever his current income is. But then there was the curious case of Mrs. Bollinger anticipating your son’s protest against her.”

“The lady is psychic”, Mr. Gable said. “What is so surprising?”

“That is odd”, I said, “because when the police came to arrest her this morning, her psychic powers had apparently failed to forewarn her of such a development. Rather bad timing on their part as it means that she is now behind bars.”

He stared at me in surprise.

“Why should they have arrested her?” he demanded.

“For her part in an attempt to extort money from you, sir”, I said. “She was one half of a highly professional scheme which, had it succeeded, would have greatly benefited her partner in crime.”

“I suppose you mean Troilus”, he said, sounding doubtful.

“No”, I said. ”Your grandson, David.”

He stared at me as if I were mad. 

“He is only a boy!” he said at last.

“A boy but, I am sorry to say, a criminal mastermind in the making”, I said firmly. “It seemed that both his uncle and cousins stood between him and a massive inheritance – but following the tragic loss of your son Aeneas he knew that you would prefer to leave your money to a male heir and a Gable, and also of your interest in the supernatural which he decided to play on.”

He stared at me in shocked silence.

“The main problem of course would be his remaining uncle, who had the administering of his own estates and whom he did not like at all. He employed the services of a friend of his who had become an actress, one Miss Lily Baker. She obtained a post working for his uncle as a maid by the simple expedient of paying one of his existing staff to leave without notice. Her presence 'in the enemy camp' would play an important role in the deception that was to come.”

“Next, Mr. Cooper took up an interest in the local theatrical society and was able to fund the purchase of several items for the group. In particular he secured a false front which ladies wear to give themselves the impression of a larger bust for reasons best known – and definitely best kept – to themselves. This was important as it would play a pivotal role in the transformation of a scrawny young blonde housemaid called Miss Lily Baker into a large, dark-haired older woman called Mrs. Ophelia Bollinger. He was careful there too; there is a real Mrs. Ophelia Bollinger who is indeed a psychic and who lives in Essex.”

“I do not believe it!” Mr. Gable protested. Although his words lacked conviction.

“The maid's position came into play once his uncle felt threatened enough to confront his father about the lady”, I went on. “Your grandson knew full well that such a thing would happen; indeed I am sure that he encouraged his uncle to do it. Mr. Troilus listened to his fears and determined to go to your house in order to 'put you to rights'. The maid was waiting for just such a development and as per the plan showed her character's 'psychic powers', thus reinforcing her credentials. She was also careful to not ask for any money up to that point, because after the major rupture between you and your son, you would most likely insist on such a move just to spite him.”

The man before me lowered his head.

“I am sorry for all this”, I said soothingly, “but it is important that you know the truth. It was your extreme good fortune that your lawyer is a friend to my colleague Doctor Watson, which was how I became involved in the case. I very much fear for your grandson’s future if he carries on the way he is, but perhaps allowing the uncle he hates to manage his affairs for a further five years might go some way towards punishing him.”

“I do not think that I have a grandson any longer”, the old man said darkly.

I think that that is a very wise decision”, I said. “I have taken the presumption to arrange for Mr. Ireland to call here this afternoon, should you wish to put certain arrangements in place. Thank you for seeing me, sir. Good day.”

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I spent the rest of Saturday writing out the notes of the case and ruing that I had ever teased John about the amount of time he spent with a pen in his hand. My wrist seriously ached by the end of the day! 

Sunday passed painfully slowly but at least there were no developments in the case that I had agreed to wait for. But I found myself growing increasingly impatient; I was packed by mid-day and was restless all the way through to bedtime. Where I slept in my cold, empty bed.

I woke at just before five the following morning and decided that enough was enough. I had promised to remain in London until Monday and Monday was now here, albeit just. I washed and shaved quickly, then raced downstairs. To my surprise Mrs. Rockland, never usually an early riser, was up and standing by the door holding a paper bag.

“A cab is waiting outside, sir”, she said, handing the bag to me. “Bacon sandwiches for the journey. You should make the first train North easily enough.”

I do not think I have ever loved her more. I kissed her then almost managed to fall over the coat-stand in my eagerness to get through the door, choosing to forgive her chuckle at my clumsiness (all right, I was thinking of her gun collection as well!). The ride to King’s Cross was eerily beautiful, through foggy gas-lit streets almost totally devoid of life. At the station I had just enough wit left to telegraph ahead that I was coming and would be there just after midday.

I ate the sandwiches in the cab on the way to King's Cross and had breakfast just before Peterborough, although I was too excited to eat much. The stations seemed to crawl by and I gazed dolefully out of the window of my first-class compartment – a corridor train which I disliked – and pulled all the blinds down wanting privacy until I reached York and my love. I really hoped that John would come to meet me at the station but I doubted it as I knew his brother's house was less than five minutes walk away from it. Or a very quick cab ride. If he did then there was always the Station Hotel.

At Doncaster there was the usual wait as the Great Northern Railway locomotive was replaced by a North Eastern one. We had just started off again when to my intense annoyance someone slid open the door, blatantly ignoring the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the blinds.....

My heart skipped a beat. John was standing there. John, panting furiously, gazing at me with those impassioned hazel eyes. I stared at him for a moment then I broke, hurtling towards him and falling against him as he struggled to slide closed the door. I whimpered piteously but he held me at arms' length for a moment.

“I tipped the conductor”, he said softly. “He has locked off this part of the train, there is no-one else here and no-one can get through. It is about thirty-five miles to York.”

“I need you inside me”, I said desperately wanting to tear all his clothes off of that gorgeous body but somehow managing (just) to refrain from so doing. “Take me, John. Make me yours again.”

He kissed me long and hard and I could feel his erection even through his trousers and mine. He removed his and my clothes quickly enough and eased my naked form down onto the seat, pulling down the arm-rests to give me something to grip onto. To my surprise he slipped a cock-ring onto me, before quickly working me open. I groaned pleasurably as he pushed in, until he was seated inside of me and attacking my prostate like he was determined to destroy it. I wondered briefly if I could do as he had done more than once, and break the confining steel ring, but all too soon he was coming inside of me, panting with the exertion. Then he leaned forward and kissed me.

“John?” I managed, gesturing to the ring. I really needed release too. But to my surprise, he just stood up and sat back on the chair opposite.

“Your turn”, he said, grinning as he raised his legs in the air. 

I managed to stand up on wobbly legs and made my way across to him. Then I just stared.

“You have the plug in you!” I said accusingly.

“Yup!” he said, his breathing becoming laboured once more. “Hurry the damn up!”

I gently removed the plug and placed it on the seat before pushing quickly inside of him. It felt so good, especially as I had been deprived of this for ten long, cold days. Of course we did not couple every night but not being able to do so made this so much more fulfilling. 

“Fill me up with that monster of yours!” John groaned. “Come on Sherlock!”

I pushed in even harder driving us both towards orgasm, and in my excitement and passion forgot the restraining ring of steel that was still holding me back. Or at least it had been; I suddenly felt it fall from me and I exploded inside John with a guttural snarl, painting his insides. He himself came a second time, gasping his release.

“Wow!” I managed weakly.

“Yes”, he said seemingly just as shattered. “Wow. Uh, Stevie is picking us up from the station so perhaps we had better try tor make ourselves sort of presentable?”

“Says the man who came all this way just because he couldn't wait”, I bitched hugging him close to me. “These last ten days have been horrible, John. I am never being separated from you for that long ever again!”

He nodded in agreement and we set to trying to make ourselves look respectable.

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Judging from the knowing look and the head-shaking that Stephen Watson gave us on the platform at York Station, we might not have been fully one hundred per cent successful in that end. Oh well.

Nine months to go.

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_Notes:_   
_† This station, planned to be called North End but more commonly known as Bull & Bush after the famous nearby pub, was never built and abandoned in 1906 when the development around it was cancelled. Trains did however start serving Golders Green to the south in 1907 as part of the Charing Cross, Euston & Hampstead Railway, the line being extended to Hendon in 1923 and Edgeware (now Edgware) opened in 1924._

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	7. Interlude: Noblesse Oblige

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1903\. Fulfilling those social obligations

**[Narration by General Carlyon Holmes]**

I glared at the clock on the wall which I was sure had stopped. Danny, my insanely sex-mad lover, had insisted that we had to stay at this ghastly charity ball at least until ten, and only then could we go home and he might – _might!_ – release the cock-ring against which King Lyon had been straining all evening. I had thought that the slow-release ones had been bad enough but seriously, they made the things with combination locks now? And I had agreed to this torture!

We were at Beckett House, attending a ball thrown by one of those ghastly politicians who I always felt were just begging to be pushed off the nearest cliff-edge. Lady Beckett, husband of the idiot who was hosting this nightmare of an evening, was sailing around the place and I had had to work hard to avoid her, not helped by my movements being, ahem, somewhat curtailed. She was a most unpleasant woman and I did not wish to spend one moment with her if I did not have to. Come to that, where had my sex-maniac of a lover gone to?

As if to prove that thinking of someone made them magically appear I found Danny at my side, hustling me out of the door and towards a darker corridor. I looked at my beautiful man – over two decades my junior and seemingly determined to sex me into an early grave – in surprise.

“Taking your older lover to some secret assignation?” I grinned. Then I saw the feral look on his face and my grin vanished as if it had never been. I had seen many terrifying sights in my time as a soldier, but that look beat them all.

“I just caught that cow of a hostess slapping one of her servants”, he growled. “So we are going to do the do in her own house, then go back in there and face her.”

I gulped. Still, at least I would get some release from the intense pressure down.... oh Lord no! He could not be that cruel!

I was clearly going senile in my old age. He nodded, his handsome face devilishly dark as he watched me put two and two together.

“Only while we do it”, he grinned. “I want to make you come all over one of her bedrooms, as many times as possible. Then the ring goes back on and we will go and talk to her, you knowing all the time what we have just done in her own house!”

I stared at the rogue as he hustled me into an empty room. That was wrong on so many levels that I did even not know where to start and why were my buttons suddenly so damn difficult?

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Incredibly after coming on the bed, on the floor, into the fireplace and up against the window of a spare bedroom, King Lyon was hard again all evening, including the whole time that I had to talk to that dreadful woman with some bastard smirking in the background. Danny was absolutely insatiable and..... I could not wait for our next evening out.

_If I lived that long!_

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	8. Case 351: The Adventure Of The Mazarin Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1904\. Less than a year to that cottage and a well-deserved retirement – but the dynamic duo's return to London is delayed by a case that takes them them to Galloway, where a scarecrow holds the secret to a murder.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Ten long days apart from Sherlock and at the end it had been just too much to bear. When the telegram had arrived telling me that he would be on the first train up from London that Monday morning and indeed was probably already on his way, I felt like a little boy whose Christmases had all come at once. My brother put up with me for an impressive ten minutes before telling me I was being an idiot and taking me down to the station where he put me on the first southbound train for Doncaster (I could have just reached Peterborough but would only have had five minutes in hand and I had this terrible fear that I might miss the love of my life and have to wait even longer). Finding Sherlock in that compartment had been like coming home.

Moments later we were indeed both coming home (sorry!). I had the blue-eyed bastard back and I was determined never to let go of him again. All was right with my world even if he had been inveigled into some case during our separation and I would have to write it up for him – his handwriting was one of the few that made my own look comparatively legible! I could even endure my brother's and sister-in-law's teasing as long as I had Sherlock. Which I did. 

Repeatedly!

My nephews and niece had all gone to Hetty's parents for the New Year so it was just the four of us for the last few days which was nice in its own way. Much as I loved being Uncle John (and Sherlock always blubbered whenever one of the children called him Uncle Sherlock!) an adult Christmas, our last before we would decamp next September to our new hideaway, was wonderful. True we could still visit them for the festive season thereafter but it felt like this was in some way a defining moment. Just nine months to get through without any hiccoughs, and we were there.

We did not make it nine days.

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We had been due to travel back to London on the evening of Saturday the second (the night sleeper, although I did not plan on sleeping much!), but on New Year’s Day a friend of Stevie’s called, hoping to persuade him to help elicit our aid. He could not believe his luck that we were actually there in the house. Neither could I, if for slightly different reasons!

I had been in the middle of enjoying a well-written rant in the local newspaper about the government’s clamping down on those 'automobile' death-traps – officially-sanctioned number-plates and a twenty miles per hour speed limit both of which seemed fair enough to me – when the Reverend Reuben Carroll arrived. He was a small nondescript fellow of about fifty years of age, clearly quite nervous but also very determined. 

“I was hoping that you gentlemen might take an interest in a rather difficult matter that is occurring in my home parish”, he said. 

His accent was definitely a Scots one, but not the harsher tones of the central and north. Most definitely a Borderer. 

“Where is that?” Sherlock asked.

“The village of Mazarin, just north of the town of Kirkcudbright”, he said.

That explained the accent then. The Galvidians had been a late edition to the Scottish kingdom having been wrested from the ancient English kingdom of Northumbria and then retained some degree of independence because of their relative isolation. Sherlock and I had passed through the area after our sole Irish adventure many years back and again not long after his return when we had visited the Isle of Whithorn (Vich Ian Vor). Most memorably of all, of course, after our Gretna case (Murder Over The Border) and just prior to our moonlight encounter in the smith there. I had liked the area a lot and only wished that it had been warmer, otherwise it might well have rivalled the Sussex Downs as a possible place for our retirement. 

“What is the problem?” Sherlock asked.

“The local landowner, Malcolm, Lord Fleet”, our visitor said. “He owns nearly all the land south and east of the village and recently he purchased a block of land between his estate and the railway line so as to enable him to more safely have hunting parties in his woods. Unfortunately he has trampled all over local sensibilities in the process; the villagers used that land to access the river and now they cannot reach it, at least not without a long detour. He has threatened to shoot anyone who tries to cross it and they have responded with attacks on his fences and hedges. It is not much as yet but the gentlemen on both sides are very hot-headed, and I fear that matters may soon escalate further.”

“Why do you think that we could help?” I asked curiously. 

“Lord Fleet is a great admirer of your literature, doctor”, the vicar said earnestly. “I was hoping that you might talk to him and persuade him to at least grant access across the land on a set path. The villagers are being led in their opposition by the owner of the tavern, Mr. Alan Dallas, and he is determined to ‘push back the local nob’, as he rather bluntly puts it.”

“This does sound rather interesting”, Sherlock said. “I am sure that the capital's criminal fraternity would not object to our absence for a few more days. If the good doctor has no objection then we will accompany you back across the Border.”

“Of course not”, I lied. 

The vicar beamed.

“Thank you”, he said, evidently relieved.

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It was one of the downsides of the railway network that the journey from York to Mazarin, though roughly the same distance as that from the northern capital to London, took considerably longer. It did not help that it was four trains rather than one; the North Eastern Railway to Newcastle and then Carlisle (taking us through Hexham which brought back memories of the surprising Mr. Fairdale Hobbs and his terrifying Leviathan), then the Glasgow & South Western Railway first to Dumfries before our final train took us into Galloway and deposited us at Mazarin Halt.

Given how attractive I had found most of Galloway, Mazarin village was, to be frank, something of a disappointment. It was a dour place of grey stone buildings set about a quarter of a mile from the halt which served it. My impression of it was probably not helped by a steady drizzle from an overcast sky, which cast a heavy pallor over the land beneath. There was certainly no missing Mazarin Hall, which squatted above the village on a shallow hill and had apparently been designed by someone who had been only narrowly rejected for the post of chief prison architect! The River Dee ran close to the railway just south of the halt then turned away to enter some rather dark-looking woods, there was a single standing stone set some way back from the riverside and, somewhat ominously, several men gathered around it.

We walked over to the gathering. Close by there was a scarecrow. which I thought rather odd as there appeared to be no crops in its field.

“This is Constable McLean”, the vicar said, gesturing to a rotund middle-aged policeman. “Jacob, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. From London!”

The way he said it we might as well have been from Mars. The constable nodded dourly at us.

“You've come too late, gentlemen”, he said grimly. “It’s blood now.”

“Blood?” the vicar gasped. “What? Who?”

“Our Mr. Dallas”, the constable said. “Found shot dead in the field this morning right by the Mazarin Stone.”

“Gentlemen”, Sherlock said firmly, “I think that we are achieving little out here other than to get soused by your Stewartry weather. May I suggest that we adjourn to somewhere drier, and we can discuss what has happened? Also for the doctor to examine the body.”

“Maybe dry”, the constable said, “but I dare say he mayn’t look over poor Mr. Dallas. His daughter had a fit when I suggested even getting Doc Ross in town to come take a look.”

“Interesting”, Sherlock said as we began walking back to the village. “One might have thought that she would have been keen to catch her father’s killer. But as the police officer on duty you do have the right to insist.”

“That’d be a London way of thinking, sir”, the constable said flatly. “You’d be away back to the Great Wen in a few days; I have to spend the rest of my life here with these people. Upsetting them isn’t wise.”

“I see your point, constable”, Sherlock said. “Let us see if Miss Dallas can be persuaded to co-operate. But before we approach her we shall establish the facts of what happened, then proceed from there.”

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The constable looked pointedly at the vicar. The four of us were sat in the police-station to which we had adjourned. The vicar nodded.

“I suppose I had better start by explaining the area”, he said. “The Mazarin Stone is we think as old as Stonehenge but is a solitary standing stone set in a field by the river for reasons as yet unknown. We have made some digs around it to see if there were ever any other stones nearby but have found nothing. The thing is huge and not of any rock type found in this area, and the nearest place one can find it is up in Moray, so it must have either been rolled or floated here for whatever reason. The local legend is that the ancient peoples regarded it as a fertility symbol, and even today some villagers still swear by it.”

The constable coughed pointedly. The vicar reddened.

“Sorry”, he said. “I get carried away with my history sometimes. The point is that the stone is almost exactly in the middle of the field that Mr. Fleet purchased recently, and the path across the field goes right up to it, then around it before continuing. It used to be the village common before it was enclosed so the people feel, rightly or wrongly, that it is theirs by right. Of course they can no longer access the lower parts of the river – at least not without a long walk round Mr. Fleet's lands.”

“Highly impractical”, Sherlock said, turning to the constable. “Why is there a scarecrow? Its presence seems somewhat unnecessary.”

I noticed that the vicar was blushing for some reason.

“He was set up there when all this confrontation started”, he said. “Whoever did it dressed him in clothes similar to the ones His Lordship prefers and even gave him a wig the same colour.”

“Probably annoyed them that he chose to let it stay there”, the constable observed dryly. “Reminds everyone whose field it is, I suppose.”

“Please tell us about the circumstances of the crime”, Sherlock said.

“The body was found by Miss Dallas herself out for her regular morning constitution”, the policeman said. “Most distressing for her, poor lass. Thankfully she had the good sense not to touch it and I only had a brief glimpse, but I think he had likely been out there all night. There is something else. His Lordship had a hunting party into yesterday evening and they were shooting down in the woods. He put up red flags on the fence around the edge as he was supposed to do, but someone tore them down.”

“So we must examine the body”, Sherlock said firmly. “On to Miss Dallas.”

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The constable had if anything understated matters; Miss Charlotte Dallas refused point blank to allow anyone to look at her father’s body. At least until Sherlock started on her.

“I do not wish to add to your distress, madam”, he said in the sort of tone which I had used myself far too often on patients and knew full well meant ‘I am about to add to your distress’, “but in fairness I must point out that your father was clearly trespassing when he was shot. Of course I would not expect Lord Fleet to wish for you to suffer any further grief than you already have done, but we must consider that a crime has taken place on his property and that he therefore has an interest.”

She stared at my friend in horror.

“You are saying that he would force an examination?” she exclaimed. “That is vile!”

“I am saying that we can circumvent such a thing if you would allow my friend the doctor to perform an examination”, Sherlock said soothingly. “He would accord your father all the dignity that he deserves, and he could then be laid to the rest that he has doubtless well earned. Otherwise.... I am afraid that the wheels of officialdom grind slowly at the best of times.”

She still looked fearful but nodded her assent. I went to get ready.

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“Well?” Sherlock asked when I had finished. 

It had been a nervy examination, with Miss Dallas and a fellow I had learned was one Mr. Alexander Heston, a runt of a fellow who was both the estate manager and a distant cousin of hers, waiting outside presumably in case I started issuing tickets or something! Their lack of faith had been irritating but I was a professional and I did my job. Once I had finished I went to find Sherlock.

“The cause of death was a bullet to the heart”, I said. “But there is something strange.”

“Go on”, he said.

“The man was shot twice”, I said.

“What is strange about that?” he asked.

“One shot was fired at close range; I found scorching around the entry wound and the bullet must still be inside him as there was no matching exit wound. But he was also shot at some considerable distance; I found a single exit-wound on his back. Judging from the size of the wound I would estimate it must have been from at least the edge of the field. Unfortunately I cannot say which shot came first although logically the distant one is more likely.”

“Which given the poor visibility that morning implies a most skilled shooter”, Sherlock said. “And the edge of the field borders at one point on the wood where the shooting was going on. I need your professional opinion here, John. Would the local doctor have spotted that had he been allowed to examine the body?”

I thought for a moment.

“I doubt it”, I said. “Especially if he had had that woman and her watchdog breathing down his neck like I had until I told him to hop it because he was getting in the way and I might stop if he did not. Even if the local man had found it he might have felt compelled not to make an issue of it. Like the constable said, he too has to live with these people once we are gone.”

“This is serious”, Sherlock said. “We will sanction the release of the body to Miss Dallas but I think we might be better finding lodgings in Kirkcudbright and coming here to resume our investigations tomorrow. We will not divulge your findings as such save to say that we know that he was shot at a distance.”

I nodded. I could see that divulging the close shot would imply that the victim must likely have known his killer, which would only lead to further speculation. The distant shot left open the possibility that the dead man might have been killed by a shot from the hunting-party in the woods, but somehow I doubted that that was the case.

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The next day we visited Mazarin Hall, the home of Malcolm, Lord Fleet who was pleased to welcome us. He was about fifty years of age, and I could see at once why someone had applied that wig to the scarecrow. It had almost been as bad as the 'thing' that was apparently squatting on the top of the nobleman's head. I wondered whether if I waved a biscuit in its direction it might sit up and beg. Here boy....

_Sherlock was tutting at me!_

Clearly less pleased to see us was his son and heir Mr. Thomas Fleet, a young dark-haired fellow of about twenty-five years of age who made his opinion as to our presence quite clear. We were spared the irksome presence of the estate manager Mr. Heston as he was down in the village with his cousin Miss Dallas.

“Sandy has split loyalties”, Lord Fleet said, “being my employee and Charlotte’s cousin. But I made it clear that at times like these his place is with family, not business.”

I noted that Mr. Fleet shuffled awkwardly for some reason. Interesting.

“That is very high-minded of you”, Sherlock said. “Are they close cousins?”

“I do not think so”, our host said. “Third or fourth, as far as I know. Their mothers are good friends though.”

“Please tell us about the field with the Mazarin Stone in it”, Sherlock said.

“A lot of superstitious mumbo-jumbo”, Mr. Thomas Fleet snorted. “This is the twentieth century for Heaven’s sake, yet they still believe in that rubbish. Father has been trying to buy the field for ages but the owner refused to sell right up to his death last year. Fortunately his executors accepted a more than fair price for it, but of course the villagers then started whining that they had lost access to the Sands.”

“What are the Sands?” I asked.

“That is the area around a small house owned by Mr. Creighton Dallas, the dead man's brother”, Lord Fleet said. “Now the only bit of property around here that we do not own; he can only access it by a road that goes under the railway and then doubles back by the station. I would presume that his brother was on his way to visit him when he was killed.”

“We should definitely talk to this gentleman”, Sherlock said. “Would you mind if we explored the vicinity of the field today, sir? I am afraid that the constable and his men have almost certainly trampled on any evidence there may have been around the stone, but we may still find something.”

“If the doctor would sign my books before he leaves”, the landowner smiled, “that is fine!”

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“We shall go to see Mr. Creighton Dallas first”, Sherlock said some little time later, “since we can work round the three sides of the field afterwards and finish by the halt.”

“That makes sense”, I said as we walked away from the big house. “What do you think of the case so far?”

“That this was a very cleverly planned and well-executed murder”, he said grimly. “Which means that proving who was behind it may be all but impossible!”

We quickly reached the small cottage by the river. There was no road here, just a rather rickety-looking wooden bridge over the river to a path on the other side that almost immediately passed across the single-track line to Kirkcudbright. Mr. Creighton Dallas was out in his garden repairing a bench; he was a large brown-haired fellow, very solidly built unlike his wiry late brother. He stood up as we approached, regarding us warily as if preparing for battle.

“You’d be the gentlemen from London”, he said slowly. “You’d best come in.”

We followed him into the small cottage which was typical of many such bachelor places I had seen before if rather neater than most. I wondered what Sherlock was going to ask this fellow and once again he surprised me.

“The doctor has found certain irregularities concerning the death of your brother”, he said. “Naturally we have not made these public as yet given people's propensity to gossip, but as his close kin we feel that you should be apprised of them. It appears that he was shot at some distance, yet there are also indications that he was shot close at hand. Apart from yourself and his daughter is there anyone else he would allow to get close to him, or for that matter who might have had motive to do such a thing?”

Mr. Dallas shook his head.

“No way”, he said flatly. “It wasn’t just that Alan kept a good house; even the drunks he threw out respected him for keeping order. He hadn’t an enemy in the world.”

I refrained from stating the obvious fact that he must have acquired at least one somewhere down the line, or he would not now be dead.

“The shot from distance must have been fired with considerable accuracy”, Sherlock said. “Without wishing to cast aspersions, who is the best marksman in the area?”

“That'd be our Mr. Thomas”, the fellow said without hesitation. “Mr. Heston trained him to start with but then he went off to Dumfries and enrolled in some fancy school there for a few months. He could probably shoot the weathercock off the church all the way from the Hall if he was so inclined.”

Sherlock nodded. 

“I understand that Lord Fleet has made you an offer to purchase this cottage”, he said. “May I inquire as to what your intentions are in that direction?”

The man looked at him warily. 

“I suppose I shall have to sell eventually”, he said. “I've long thought about emigrating to America or Canada.”

“I know that some transatlantic liners call in at Belfast, which is easily reached from Portpatrick not far from here”, Sherlock said. “Well, I shall wish you good luck if you do decide to make the great move.”

There was something unspoken between the two men but I could not tell what it was. We made our farewells and left.

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“What motive could young Mr. Fleet have had?” I wondered as we walked back to the corner of the fatal field. It was almost lunch-time but a fog hung over the place blotting out much of the light, and the stone stood out eerily against the skyline. “Or do you think that there was something between him and Miss Dallas, and that her father objected?”

Sherlock seemed unusually thoughtful and did not answer. Instead he led me back to the field in order to begin our examination of the area. The place was not even and the slope down to where it met the wood was a notable one, so I doubted that anyone could have shot the victim from there. We then worked our way along one side of the field without finding anything. 

Halfway along the second side was where the path from the Hall crossed a gap in the hedge. Sherlock stopped and looked thoughtfully across at the stone in the distance. 

“The stone and therefore the place the body was found is about thirty yards from here”, he said. “From the angle, which way do you think the victim would have been facing when he was shot.”

I thought back to my examination. 

“Towards the village”, I began, then stopped. “But he cannot have been. His brother did not say anything about his visiting him _before_ the shooting, so where was he coming from? Unless the brother was lying?”

Sherlock led the way around the edge of the field. He seemed lost in thought.

“He cannot have been shot from the village”, I said reasonably. “They would certainly have heard it and have come to investigate. So he must have been facing away from the village for the shot to come from the other direction; I know that sound does not travel well in mist. But how?”

“Because he was made to turn _before_ he was shot”, Sherlock said. 

He gestured to one of the posts on the stile leading to the Hall, and looking closer I could see that someone had cut a groove in the top. A groove that would be ideal for a gun-rest.

“Do you know who did it?” I asked.

“I know”, he said grimly. “But proving it depends on whether the next witness that I question can provide me with the evidence.”

He strode across the field to the stone but passed it and instead went to the scarecrow. I stared at him in confusion then he reached inside the thing's coat and pulled something out. It was a bullet. 

I stared at it in shock.

“The second shot”, he said gravely. “If we hurry, we can make the midday train to Kirkcudbright and have lunch there. I would rather not be around Mazarin for the next few days.”

I was puzzled but followed him anyway.

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Our inn at Kirkcudbright was basic but functional, and we had adjoining single rooms with a connecting door which was good. I was not surprised therefore when Sherlock came to my room that night, and I smiled as he stood at the far end of the bed slipping off his dressing-gown.

“I could do with a bed-warmer”, I grinned.

He gave me a feral look.

“I think some of that legend about the stone granting increased fertility may have been true after all”, he growled his eyes dark with passion. “I am feeling the effects right now!”

“Well, I doubt that even _you_ can get me pregnant!” I chuckled. “Come on in!”

He knelt at the end of the bed and reached for my entrance, then grinned. The base of the vibrator was there.

“You bad boy, doctor”, he said reprovingly. “I was looking forward to opening you up. Now I shall have to find that pleasure some other way.”

I grinned and waited for him to remove the vibrator and get down to business. I got the shock of my life when, after he had placed it beside us both, he hoisted my legs up and started applying his tongue around my entrance.

“Oh fuck!” I gasped.

“Eventually”, he grinned, his clever tongue forcing its way inside my ready hole. “But appetizers always come before the main course.”

And come I did, even before he was inside me and so hard that my eyes watered. He paused in his attentions and grinned at me from between my legs. Then to my annoyance he slid the vibrator back in and began to move up my chest, licking away my come as he did so. I groaned in anticipation and he gently bit one of my nipples, making me hard again in short order. He chuckled.

“I wonder if I can get you to come a second time without even being inside of you?” he mused. I was about to object when I felt his hand tickling at the base of my cock, teasing my prostate from outside while the vibrator nudged it from within.

I duly came again, this time more feebly but catching him across the face. He grinned at me then removed it and began to rub it into his skin scenting himself from me. 

“Sherlock!” I hissed. 

“I think twice is enough for one night, John”, he said, edging backwards. “I had better leave you with that inside you so you can recover....”

I growled fiercely and dragged the vibrator out myself not even noticing the pain. 

“If you don't get inside me in the next sixty seconds”, I snarled, “I am withholding sex for a week!”

He gave a dirty chuckle.

“I doubt you could withhold it for a minute, John”, he teased. “But as you wish.”

And with that he sheathed himself inside of me in one swift movement and came almost at once, sighing his release into the darkness of the room. My cock twitched feebly but there was no way I was going to manage three orgasms in so short a time-frame and I had to be content to just lie there while he gently pulled out and draped himself over me before almost immediately falling fast asleep.

I was happy. So very, very happy.

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A week passed and yet Sherlock did not seem to actually _do_ much. The only development of note was that Mr. Creighton Dallas did indeed sell his cottage to Lord Fleet and begin preparations to follow his dream to the United States, whither he was headed after his late brother's funeral. That event was I understand well-attended, although for obvious reasons Sherlock and I stayed away. The upside of that was that the fertility effects of the stone continued to work their magic which was wonderful except for those times when I sat down too quickly. 

The only bad thing about this place was those cold, bare wooden benches!

It was January the tenth when I (very gingerly) came down to breakfast at our hotel to find Sherlock looking grave.

“There has been a further killing at the Mazarin Stone”, he said. “Two deaths this time. Miss Dallas and Mr. Heston.”

“We must go at once!” I said.

“Calm yourself, doctor”, he said. “Constable McLean has arranged for a sergeant to come up from the town police-station and he will be calling in half an hour to take us rather than wait for the first train of the day. We just have time for breakfast.”

I was relieved at that for I was rather hungry, though I suspected that the crispy bacon that this place served may just have encouraged Sherlock to delay our departure. I devoured my own food quickly and we were waiting outside when a police carriage drew up. The man driving it was Sergeant Glenmarrick and he was visibly relieved to see us.

“This is very bad, gentlemen”, he said. “Three deaths all by the stone. People are talking.”

“I doubt there is any power on earth that would stop that, sergeant”, Sherlock said. “I hope an examination of the bodies will yield some clues although I do have a good idea as to what happened. But let us not get ahead of ourselves. We shall see what we shall see.”

It was another cold Galvidian morning and our journey was slowed by the heavy fog, but we eventually turned off the main road and along the by-road down into Mazarin. I found the bumpy road particularly uncomfortable and matters (along with the ache in my poor backside) were not helped by a certain someone's knowing smirk. We passed over the railway and stopped by the field where the village constable was standing close to the stone.

I quickly examined the two bodies. Mr. Heston had been shot in the chest at a fairly short range as there was no scorching, while Miss Dallas some two yards away had been shot in the back presumably while trying to flee. Sherlock looked at the two bodies with that expressionless look on his face that told me he was hiding something. I knew him well by now.

A sudden pain in my backside as I moved position reminded me that yes, I knew him _very_ well by now!

“Has someone tried to contact Mr. Creighton Dallas?” Sherlock asked, with what was dangerously close to a smirk. The constable shook his head.

“He left last night for the train to Castle Douglas that connects to the west”, he said. “He was definitely gone before all this went down though; Mr. Parker the stationmaster saw him make the Portpatrick train. I telegraphed the ferry offices and they had no booking in his name, though of course he could just turn up and buy a ticket. ”

Sherlock nodded.

“Let us go to the police-station”, he said. “It is bitterly cold here. Once we are safely in the warm, I have some ideas as to who has committed this crime.”

“You have a solution?” the sergeant asked.

“I have two!”

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“Gentlemen, I promised you two solutions to this crime”, Sherlock said, sitting before a roaring fire, “and two you shall have. Which one you choose to reveal to the public is up to you of course, but please hear me out fully before deciding.”

“Of course, sir”, the sergeant said.

“Very well”, Sherlock said. “My first solution is a little rough but it covers the facts. A certain fanatical Irish nationalist recently escaped from a London gaol, and sought a part of the country where he could lie low for a time while having a chance of crossing to his homeland. Having made sure that he was seen in the Liverpool area thus making the authorities think that he was looking to make the crossing there, he came north and worked his way towards Portpatrick, resting here until the hue and cry had died down somewhat. Unfortunately his hiding-place was disturbed, first by Mr. Alan Dallas and later by his daughter and Mr. Heston. All three paid for their mistakes with their lives, the terrorist then making his escape from the area.”

The two policemen stared at him incredulously.

“That is it?” Constable McLean asked.

“It seems a bit unlikely”, the sergeant agreed. “Where was he hiding exactly?”

“It is just a possible solution”, Sherlock said. “As is my other one. But I think you will like that rather less. Very well.”

He hesitated before continuing.

“In the murder of Mr. Alan Dallas we know that there were two shots, one at close-range and one at a distance that was most likely from the edge of the field. They key to understanding this solution of the crime hinges on which of those came first. I believe that it had to have been the distant one because we know that the victim instinctively drew his knife if he sensed the remotest hint of danger. I did consider whether Mr. Creighton Dallas had killed him as he would have been able to get close but there was clearly no motive; all that he inherited under his late brother's will were a few small family items. Miss Dallas, I quickly discovered, had never fired a gun in her life. So the distant shot _had_ to have come first, which in turn means that the shooter had to have been highly skilled. 

“Mr. Thomas Fleet”, I said. Sherlock shook his head.

“I was thinking rather the man who first trained him, Mr. Heston”, he said. “I believe that the two shots were _meant_ to mislead, to throw confusion upon confusion as it were. It is not easy to shoot a man in poor visibility on a cold and foggy morning even if one is an excellent shot – but in this case the shooter had help. Mr. Alan Dallas stopped and turned at that stone and stood there waiting because he saw someone that he knew coming after him. He did not draw his knife because he saw no danger – but he was wrong because that person would help kill him.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Miss Charlotte Dallas.”

“What?” we all exclaimed.

“She was the _distraction”,_ Sherlock said. “Seeing her approaching, Mr. Dallas naturally stood still and waited, and that gave Mr. Heston the time he needed to fix his sights and to deliver the fateful shot. But they were well aware that that alone would have caused suspicion to fall upon Mr. Heston as a skilled shooter, so they propped the dead man up against the scarecrow and Mr. Heston fired a bullet into him at close range. That, they knew, would throw suspicion upon Mr. Creighton Dallas as one of the few people his brother would have let get close to him.”

“Ironically however it was that very cover-up which proved their undoing. Such was the force of the bullet that it passed clean through the victim and ended up embedded in the scarecrow, leaving only a slight mark on the fellow's tattered coat to betray its passing. The murderers' hurried search for it was therefore fruitless and they had to leave the area.”

“Miss Dallas made it home unseen and soon after took her regular morning constitutional, 'finding' her father's body. She insisted on no examination even though she was fairly sure that the local doctor would not find anything, or even if he did he would keep quiet and say nothing. Imagine her annoyance when the local vicar, whom she had likely learned was seeking my aid and had therefore hastened her own plans as a result, returned far sooner than expected. She had hoped to have had her father laid to rest long before we arrived.”

“But who then shot her and Mr. Heston?” I asked.

“Mr. Creighton Dallas”, he said. “As I knew he would.”

“Wait a minute”, the constable said. “Mr. Creighton left yesterday. I told you, Mr. Parker saw him off.”

“You said that he took the train to Castle Douglas to connect through to Portpatrick”, Sherlock said. “He did, but then alighted at the first station, Crossmichael, and walked back here. It is but a few miles across country, nothing to someone with his stamina. After the killing he would have time to return to Crossmichael and slip into the first train of the day 'on the blind side', and of course with a valid ticket; my research revealed that those on that railway do not bear a date as they are colour-coded to distinguish between on the day and period tickets. A near-perfect alibi.”

“What did you mean, 'you knew he would'?” the sergeant asked. Sherlock looked at him gravely.

“Consider the evidence, sergeant”, he said slowly. “There is next to none. No jury would have convicted this pair of cold-blooded murderers – but when I told Mr. Creighton Dallas certain facts he very quickly pieced together that his niece and her cousin had killed his brother. I later wired him my findings that I was certain but that it could not be proven in a court of law. He knew that a smart lawyer would be able to play on a poor young woman and that doubtless she and her accomplice would blame each other, making a conviction almost impossible. He most probably arranged to meet them both by the same stone where they killed his brother, confronted them with what they had done and shot them both in quick succession. He is now on his way to Ireland and then the United States, as he said he would. You may of course wish to pursue him – or you may choose my first solution, in which case the doctor and I would back you up with the local people.”

The sergeant looked at the constable and hesitated.

“It's justice”, the constable said slowly. “He's right. They'd have gotten away with it.”

The sergeant nodded, and turned back to Sherlock.

Will you stay here one more day and help spread the news about our 'fugitive'?” he asked.

“Of course”, Sherlock smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”

Eight and a half months to go.

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Postscriptum: Mr. Creighton Dallas made it to the United States where he became an estate manager in the state of North Dakota. He died in early 1929 and a clause in his will asked his executors to send a note of thanks to Sherlock and myself for our actions that time in Galloway and to request publication of this story. I have fulfilled his last request.

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	9. Case 352: The Adventure Of The Unkindest Cut ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1904\. The end is nigh but the cases keep coming, and Sherlock is asked to help out a family member whose business is being targeted because of his religion. Fortunately he is able to 'sheikh' things up for the evildoers, who find themselves facing the unkindest cut of all.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

This was another of the small number of cases involving family members, and one which I think in the fullness of time may be able to be released to the British public. One can only hope that by the time it is, the bigotry shown by the perpetrators and the malice shown by the 'proper authorities' are things of the past. I can but hope.

The young fellow sat in the famous fireside chair at 221B was my nephew, Mr. Aaron Frensberg. A Jewish gentleman, he had married Mycroft's third daughter Elizabeth back in 1893 and they had since had three sons. Of her sisters only Charlotte, now divorced from Mr. Leonard and apparently increasingly desperate for any man, was still in contact with her disgraced father while the others had all happily accepted the silent and brilliant Mr. Blaze Trevelyan as their new stepfather. John, being John, had quipped that Charlotte was only maintaining her relationship with her father for money (he had treated her the one time, during the terrible Veiled Lodger case in 1896). He was as bad as ever.

_Especially when he knew that he was right, damn the fellow!_

At this time Mr. Frensberg was about thirty-five years of age and looked every inch the respectable London tailor. His shop was only a short distance away, just around the corner in Park Road where it was highly and deservedly regarded as one of the best in the capital. John, I knew, felt a little less warmly towards the fellow after he had recently suggested that some of my love's clothes 'maybe needed adjusting', and had slouched back home grumbling that he should not be putting on any weight bearing in mind all that he went through with me. I had very fairly not smirked at all, at least until he had had to go out later, but had most considerately made a note to increase the frequency of his 'workouts'.

“I am afraid that this is very much a case of my being hoist with my own _petard_ ”, our visitor said ruefully. “Some months ago the Local Working Men's Association, which had been meeting in the back rooms of its various members, applied for a lease of a flat above a shop a few doors down from mine. Several of my fellow shopkeepers were against it but I, foolishly as it turned out, saw no objection and they were allowed to proceed. Since then however two of the men involved have been harassing ladies and gentlemen going to and from my shop.”

_(I should say at this point that I felt more kindly disposed towards this particular relative as he and his wife had named their third son John 'after a dear family friend'. John had treated Elizabeth as a patient and my vile brother Mycroft had tried to use that to find things out about my love, only for Mrs. Frensberg to tell her former parent where to shove it!)_

I frowned and asked the obvious question.

“But not to and from anyone else's?” I asked. 

He nodded.

“How do these men have the time for such activities?” John asked. “Have they not jobs to go to?”

“Sadly no”, my nephew said. “The venture was funded by a rich fellow called Mr. Daniel Baddesley whose sons are the miscreants in question. The young men have set up a rota for manning the place in an attempt to ruin my business, and in that they are slowly but surely succeeding.”

“And their father approves of their activities?” I frowned.

“I am afraid that that was why he chose the site in the first place”, my nephew said. “He is also a vicious anti-Semite and is always claiming that my people are trying to rule the world. The lease on the flat has nearly a year still to run, and I am not sure that I can hold out that long with things the way they are. Worse, my own boys despite their tender ages are spoiling to get involved – my eldest and namesake has only just turned ten, as you know – and only the fact that their mother rules them with an iron fist is holding them back.”

“She could always read one of their great-grandmother's stories to them?” suggested someone who was even at this late stage in our relationship was still contriving to get worse. I glared at him.

 _”Jus in bello”,_ I reminded him sternly. “In modern war there are limits on the use of deadly weapons, doctor. Sir, what are the names of these ruffians who are bent on destroying your business?”

“David and Denzel Baddesley”, he said. “Is there anything you can do, do you think?”

“What about the police?” John asked. 

Unfortunately I already knew the answer to that one.

“The area is under the 'jurisdiction' of the unpleasant Sergeant Whitefeather”, I said, “so I can imagine that that would be a wasted journey as I know his bigotry marches in step with the rest of his unpleasant nature. I shall give this matter my most urgent attention, nephew. I need to send out some telegrams first but once they come back, I shall act. You have my word on that.”

My nephew smiled, clearly relieved.

“Thank you, sir.”

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I was sure that the message I sent to Miss St. Leger, or more properly to her _protégé_ our friend 'Ginger', would bring a swift result even though I knew that the lady was back in East Suffolk sorting out her new home in which she planned to 'semi-retire' as she called it with the impossibly muscular Mr. Harry Zeuson, one of my brother Sherrinford's helpers. John had threatened to send his notes from our adventure in that area to my mother 'so that she might feel inspired', and I had been horrified! One does not feed a forest fire!

My other message might, I suspected, take a little longer to elicit a reply so I decided to spend the rest of the day explaining to John why teasing the man that you love is generally a bad thing, especially when said love can flip the red card across the door and then spend hours reducing you to a happy pile of goo. There was something still wonderfully domestic about sitting there reading, while a gloriously naked city doctor lay there gasping on the couch trying to gather his wits.

“You”, he muttered, “are terrible!”

“Why?” I asked with what was obviously fake innocence. “I said that I wanted to teach you the importance of things, and professors do wear mortar-boards.”

“On their heads!” he moaned. “I am not going to survive to see that cottage.”

“Never mind”, I said consolingly. “I shall have you buried out in the back garden beneath a cross and the words, 'Here Lies John Hamish Watson, Sexed To His End And Happy Ever After'.”

He shifted his position, then yelped in pain. I did not snigger.

“Shut up!” he grumbled.

Apparently I did snigger. Oh well.

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I was surprised when my second telegram was answered in person by a visitor to Baker Street the following day, for it was none other than Sheikh Khalid of Arbir who we had helped out some months back over my other nephew's 'somewhat irregular' weekend jobs. Plural.

I could see why John had threatened to write to Mother about some of our adventures. If she ever learned about what was going on up in Rigsby..... the mind boggled as to what she might come out with! Never mind Sussex; I would start looking at Timbuctoo! Or Mars!

“Yes, some of my ladies use Mr. Frensberg”, the handsome young ruler said, “although I was not aware that he was a relative of yours. He is a most sound fellow, and I do not like to hear of his difficulties.”

“Before we proceed to business I must offer my congratulations”, I smiled. “I read the other week that your dear wife has given birth to a son.”

“Elizabeth is over the moon”, he smiled, “and as she has been recognized as my chief lady, the line of succession is assured. Tantalus is certainly providing plenty of back-ups though; five of the ladies that he has 'darkly assisted' have had children, four of them sons, while six more are expecting.”

“Is there nor an issue with their skin colour?” I wondered. 

For some reason that question seemed to perturb the young ruler.

“Bad memories”, he said ruefully. “My father did but one thing right in his miserable existence when he married my mother, who was English or at least Scottish. People just think it is that blood resurfacing, and given how terrible he was at the end it is not a subject that many would wish to dwell on, especially as people know that I do not like it. Do you remember meeting Bill and Ben when you came to Rigsby?”

“The eunuchs”, I recalled. “Are they actual twins?”

He nodded, his face dark again.

“There is a small but fiercely territorial tribe in the south-eastern corner of my little realm”, he explained. “A micro-nation as they call it but like Arbir itself, strategically important; the sole road in from the Ottoman Empire passes through their lands and they do not appreciate anyone using it without the appropriate payment. The last time Imperial forces tried so to do, two thousand of the interlopers ended up dead.”

“Heads on poles, I suppose”, John said.

The ruler smiled dourly.

“They have not yet progressed enough to master that thing called subtlety, doctor”, he said. _“Their_ 'trophies' came from about three foot lower down!”

John crossed his legs at that. So, instinctively, did I. Ugh!

“We have come to an understanding with them that works for now”, the sheikh said. “They are obliged to send tribute of some sort every ten years and also every time there is a new sheikh, so when my father acceded they sent two handsome young princes of their own dynasty to wait on him, Bill and Ben. He had them castrated and.... I do not think there is an English word for it but they were stripped of their names before being thrown into a dungeon. Ironically that was one of the acts that convinced people my father was some way beyond _non compos mentis._ He was overthrown and my first act was to appoint Bill and Ben as harem guards and bring them with me to England. It was the highest honour that I could legally bestow on them and it only just smoothed things over back home; their people were as you might have guessed not overly pleased and we had several small-scale raids before peace was restored. I mention them because I think that they might be useful to you in this.”

“How?” I asked. He smiled at me.

“Our cultures differences can sometimes be played to an advantage”, he said. “I am sure that the likes of these bullies who torment innocent ladies and gentlemen while trying to force someone out of business for the basest of reasons, will not be among the most intelligent of humanity, to put it mildly. I also remember the doctor remarking on what that formidable lady Mrs. Maude Findlay once said, namely that when you have them by the balls, their hearts and minds will surely follow.”

He smiled cruelly. I knew that he was a good man but even I felt cold at that. Perhaps what he was suggesting was too cruel even for....

On the other hand, everyone deserves some cultural appreciation.

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Some days later John and I once more took the train to Rigsby. It was not one of my nephew's days; poor Tantalus had been mortified that time when he had had to try to explain to his mother why he had taken to using a coconut body-rub (because the sheikh used it and he could hardly tell poor Rachael _that!)_ , and the boy had come to see us afterwards grousing that his stepfather smirked far, far too much. I agreed; as I told my love, smirking was really an annoying thing.

John really needed to get something for that cough of his.

Our meeting-place with the sheikh was very different from last time. This was his Throne Room, where the monarch was elevated several feet above everyone else and dressed in his traditional Arbirian robes complete with a very sharp-looking scimitar at his belt. He greeted us as pleasantly as before however, and we were guided to behind an ornate wooden screen from where we could watch what was about to unfold. There were chairs, a table and even a plate with coffee, barley-sugars and, for some reason, several slices of chocolate cake that made 'someone' actually whine (manfully, of course).

We had been there about twenty minutes – the cake slices had not made it past ten! – when one of the servants crossed the room and struck the huge gong so hard that our ears rang. The huge doors at the other end of the room swung open and I recognized Bill and Ben, dressed in their normal clothes and each carrying a tall if scrawny fellow in an implacable grip. The Baddesley brothers, both unprepossessing fellows in their mid- to late teens. The eunuchs threw their charges to the floor in front of the throne, bowed to the sheikh then withdraw but not before each taking out their own scimitar and resting it point-down before them.

The sheikh smiled unpleasantly at the two visitors.

“Mr. David Baddesley and Mr. Denzel Baddesley”, he said silkily. “So good of you to accept my kind and generous invitation.”

“Like we had any choice!” Mr. David Baddesley muttered.

“You really should mind your manners, especially in your position”, the sheikh said. “My sausages were marginally undercooked at breakfast this morning, so as well as having my cook whipped I might decide to further make up for that annoyance by having you both killed. Or worse.”

Both men looked at him in horror.

“This is England!” Mr. Denzel Baddesley said at last. “You can't do that sort of thing here!”

The sheikh sighed heavily.

“I would have expected little better from cretins who think that standing in the street and yelling at people somehow constitutes a living”, he said dryly. “If you had any sense in those thick skulls of yours, gentlemen, you would know that this is _Arbir._ This house is as much my homeland as the British ambassador's residence in my capital back home is part of Great Britain. I can do what I like to you within these walls, and the English justice system will not lift a finger to stop me. As you have offended at least six of my wives, I am minded to do rather a lot!”

“We never did anything to your wives!” Mr. Daniel Baddesley said hotly.

Bill snarled and advanced on him, but stopped dead at a look from his employer and scuttled back to his post with amazing speed for a fellow his size. I knew that my nephew Tantalus was enamoured of both young men despite.... well, despite the obvious, and after his long 'sessions' liked to relax in a bath with both of them.

I shuddered. John sending any of this to my mother was becoming a more terrifying prospect by the hour!

“My ladies wear British attire when they go shopping”, the sheikh said, “and given the general uselessness of the police service in the area I employed a private company to track you down. That makes two lots of people in this country who need to learn their manners. Tom, what is it _now?”_

A clearly nervous servant was edging towards him bearing a covered dish, which he placed on the table next to the throne before disappearing with impressive speed. The sheikh eyed the dish then smiled knowingly and removed the cover to reveal a heavily decorated platter of what looked like..... I really, _really_ hoped that they were just slightly squashed meatballs and not what they looked like which was making John cross his legs again.

“How appropriate!” he beamed. “The first set of people to annoy me of late have been dealt with. I shall not have to have anyone else whipped, or at least not this morning.”

The trapped brothers looked at each other, clearly confused.

“In my country”, the sheikh said, smiling that dangerous smile again, “we do not tolerate men who cannot treat the wives of the nation's ruler with an appropriate degree of respect. We therefore emasculate them by removing what I believe in this nation is commonly referred to as their 'two veg'.”

Judging from the horrified looks on the faces of the Baddesleys and that both of them rushed their hands across their lower reaches, they had got the message. I smiled and doubtless John would have too had he not had a mouthful of cake, the sheikh's efficient servants having brought several more slices of it. 

“You can't!” Mr. Daniel Baddesley protested. “That's just wrong!”

“As I said this is Arbir, not England”, the sheikh said laconically. “But after eating the 'veg' of the first lot of offenders, I suppose that I had better not have too much or I will start putting on weight.”

He devoured one of the meatballs and both men winced. So did both John and I; they looked a shade _too_ realistic even at this distance! 

“I have therefore most generously decided to grant you _khalsia_ , which I believe translates loosely into English as 'temporary mercy'”, he said. “Please note the application of the adjective 'temporary'; it is rather important. You may return to your wretched lives – but the boys here will be watching you. Constantly. If one more person going into and out of that shop that my ladies use is inconvenienced in _any_ way, then I only hope you have fathered plenty of sons by that time – _because you will certainly not be fathering any more!_ Boys, please take out the rubbish.”

The huge doors creaked open as Bill and Ben suddenly materialized next to the cringing men, each grabbing one and dragging them away. Brilliant!

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Safe to say, my nephew had no more trouble from the Baddesley brothers who resigned from the club the moment that they got back to London. Bill and Ben still occasionally 'passed by' their house in Muswell Hill however, just to make sure that they stayed on the straight and narrow. Best of all as far as John was concerned, the sheikh allowed his cook to give my love the recipe for that particularly delicious chocolate cake!

Eight months to go.

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	10. Case 353: The Adventure Of The Time-Traveller ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1904\. Incredibly one of the worst examples of modern policing might actually be promoted another rank up the Metropolitan Police Service, despite his involvement in a crime. In another case with foreign overtones Sherlock 'takes time' to break another unbreakable alibi.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

This has to rank as one of the cases that I most regret not being able to have included in the 'Sherlock canon', for it involved the overthrow of one of the worst excrescences of modern policing (and we in our time had seem some pretty bad ones, I can tell you!). The villain was the ghastly Sergeant Craig Whitefeather who, to his ultimate discomfort, came back into our lives at the worst possible time and was involved in a crime yet seemingly could not have been. And once again it was the man that so many wrongly call a mere scribe, my beloved John, who solved the riddle and helped me to secure justice.

Our final year in Baker Street was seeming to pass far too slowly, and we limped into a chilly February still far too far away from that wonderful cottage on the Downs. I had not told John one thing as of yet, namely that I had agreed with the owner Mr. Jubal Smith that when his current tenants moved out in April my men would move in and refit the place with lots more rooms specially for us. It would be ideal by the time we reached it at the end of September – _if all that sexual frustration did not kill one or both of us beforehand!_

It was the day after St. Valentine's Day, still loathed by the both of us and not marked in any way, shape or form. Certainly not by the broken man lying in my bed wearing only a thong with hearts on it and letting out the occasional whimper as he slept. Also no, I did not strut as I left him after helping him to hold his heavy breakfast plate. Indeed, showing great generosity I made things much easier for him by removing all that heavy bacon!

While my own sleeping beauty was recovering from all his exertions I had a visitor. Our friend Ginger, who was still working nearby but had recently managed (with a little help) to obtain a new and better house for his growing family. He was as I have said before he was now partly in charge of Swordland's with my friend Miss St. Leger what she called 'horizontally engaged' with Mr. Zeuson in her new East Suffolk home. Honestly, some people these days thought of nothing but sex!

Ginger was much the same as ever, with the sort of permanently confused look that had led so many of the criminal class to underestimate him always to their ruin. Today however there was also an air of concern, and I asked if it was Swordland's that had brought him here today.

“Sort of, sir”, he admitted, scratching his impressive red thatch. His wife had decided that she liked him to have one of those again fashionable stubbled beards so he now looked even more like a dopey Celtic warrior that someone had dressed in a police uniform, but anyone who had won the confidence of Miss St. Leger had to be a lot more than that. “I was looking into something else and I came across this. It is.... kind of gross.”

“How gross, exactly?” I asked. I had seen a lot in my time and I had also read some of my mother's stories, so it would surely take a lot to unsettle me. Especially after 'West Wing', where a seemingly respectable lord of the manor had turned half his house into a brothel.

“That bastard Whitefeather's going for promotion!”

On the other hand, even I could be wrong. I stared at our guest in confusion.

“Surely he cannot”, I said. “I thought that the rules about serving set times were tightened last year?”

“He has friends on the panel that decides such things, sir”, Ginger said ruefully. “We all knew that Fred Carter is stepping down as his wife inherited that house in Wales and they're moving there, but they are planning to delay the change in the rules so that that scum can apply.”

I had several scores to settle with Sergeant Craig Whitefeather, and had I not been busy planning for my future happiness with John then his time would surely have come. And there was also his inactivity over my nephew Mr. Frensberg's problems which I owed him for. I looked at our guest shrewdly.

“What were you looking into when you came across that fact?” I asked.

“This weird business of the Millington Square attack, sir”, he said. “Mrs. Ollerton was attacked by three men and had her purse stolen. Her husband was with her but he's a weedy little runt; one of them was enough to take him down.”

I waited. I knew that there had to be more. He nodded.

“Mr. Ollerton said in a statement that he saw Sergeant Whitefeather standing just across the road”, he said, “and that he ran off rather than come to help. He gave a pretty damn good description and all.”

“But?” I pressed. Any police officer who behaved like that, friends in high places or no friends in high places, would have been drubbed out of the force in short order unless there was something else. Ginger nodded.

“The sergeant claimed he was with Mr. Patterson at the time, sir”, he said glumly. “And he backed him up.”

I winced. I believed that patriotism was generally a force for good but Mr. Benedict Patterson was an irksome idiot who never missed an opportunity to remind everyone that he was an AMERICAN (capital letters not optional) living in London. He was in an ongoing feud with his local council who were trying to get him to tone down his red, white and blue house with its seventeen – _seventeen!_ flags. There was patriotism and then there was overkill.

“Unfortunately the couple were returning home from a wedding where Mr. Ollerton had had more than a bit to drink”, Ginger said with a sigh. “I am sure that that coward was there but I cannot break his alibi.”

“John and I have broken stronger alibis before”, I said confidently. “Tell me about the times, please.”

“The attack happened just before half-past four on Thursday, the eleventh”, he said. “Two passers-by who came to help both heard the nearby church clock striking the half-hour. But Mr. Patterson swears blind that the sergeant was with him between four and just before five.”

I frowned. I did not like Mr. Patterson and I knew that he was friends with the sergeant, which poor judgement further devalued him as a human being. But the American was for all his manifold failings a deeply moral man, even if his morality like his patriotism had to be forced down everyone's throat at every opportunity.

There was a moan from the bedroom, and my guest smiled slightly.

“I think that's all, sir”, he said. “If anything else happens I'll make sure to let you know.”

“Thank you, Ginger”, I said. “I will look into this – once I have helped poor John back to the land of the living.”

“Probably happier where he is now, sir!” the policeman smirked. 

I shook my head as he left. We had terrible friends!

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By dinner-time John was up if dressed only in his dressing-gown and pyjamas. He glared at me when I gestured to the cushion that I had so considerately placed on his chair, then scowled at me when I threatened to remove it. It took him nearly a minute to get himself down while uttering what he later claimed were manly expressions of surprise, and I got only a mildly appreciative look when I plated a meal up for him. 

I told him about Ginger's case while he ate – the poor old fellow seemed to find holding that heavy knife and fork an effort – and he nodded.

“A horrible fellow, Mr. Patterson”, he said. “Poor Peter had to call on him for a check-up one time when he was covering for the fellow's usual doctor, and he made him wait because he was in the middle of breakfast.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“Your friend called round at that time of day?” I asked. “Surely it had to have been an emergency if it was that early?”

“No, it was one o' clock in the afternoon”, John said. “But you know how American that particular American is. He runs all his clocks on New York time, five hours behind Greenwich.”

I stared at him. The man was a genius!

“So if say it was half-past nine in the evening here in Baker Street”, I said slowly, “all the clocks in Mr. Patterson's house would read half-past four in the afternoon?” 

“Yes”, John sighed. “Any dessert?”

“Just custard”, I said. “But I think that you have just solved this case for me, so I am going to send out to that bakery in Paddington for one of their boxes of forty-eight chocolate fudge squares.”

He looked overjoyed at that, then his face fell.

“It is early-closing day”, he sighed.

“I have an arrangement with Mr. Crusoe that my telegrams go to his house above the bakery”, I said. “I am sure that he will not mind going downstairs for a particularly clever customer!”

That smile was so wonderful!

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Ginger came round again the following day. The headlines in the 'Times' had most definitely not made pleasant reading for the upper reaches of the Metropolitan Police Service, and they were now minus one useless sergeant who had been sacked for lying to his superiors and abjectly failing to do his duty. Regretfully I would have to have the fellow before me monitor things in case they tried to slip the rogue back in, but for now arguably the most useless policeman in London Town was finished.

“It was easy in the end, sir”, he said. “Once we knew he had to have gone to Mr. Patterson's house from the scene of the crime some way, we found plenty of witnesses. How did you know, though?”

“The good doctor told me”, I smiled. “He reminded me that Americans operate on different time zones to we English, with New York being five hours behind and San Francisco on the Pacific coast a full eight hours.”

The tall fellow thought that one through. As I have said, despite his appearance he was really a clever man.

“I get it”, he smiled. “The sergeant _was_ in the square at half-past four, and went to Mr. Patterson's to establish his alibi. Five hours later it was half-past-four New York time, half-past nine here in London, so Mr. Patterson could say that the sergeant had been with him between four and five – except he left out that he was using American time.”

I nodded.

“There is the added benefit that he himself will be keeping a lower profile now that people know him for such sophistry”, I said. “Mr. Patterson will of course claim that he is _so_ renowned that surely everyone knew that he was using American time when giving his statement. I doubt that that will save him in the court of public opinion, however.”

Ginger grinned.

“No doctor around”, he noted cheerfully. “I take it that you rewarded him for his good work?”

“Of course”, I said firmly. “I bought him a whole box of chocolate squares all for himself.”

The tall policeman shook his finger at me.

“Don't you start with the 'leaving out things'. Mr. Holmes sir”, he said reprovingly. “One look at the skew-whiff rug over there tells me he got rather more than the odd chocolate square!”

I blushed fiercely. Sometimes having smart policemen friends was _not_ a good thing!

Seven months to go.

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	11. Case 354: Breakfast In Marseilles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1904\. Sherlock helps out his former landlady Mrs. Malone and his friend Chem over a small matter when someone stops behaving badly. Meanwhile Lady Holmes hurts her hand.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It was St. David's Day of our last year in London, and the daffodils were in bloom for what would be our last spring in Baker Street. I had for once been alone on my walk, Sherlock having had to go and visit his family (poor fellow!) and had returned expecting to find him in the inevitable foul mood that he so often was after such encounters. I may or may not have been looking forward to him working off his anger on me but that was beside the point.

Yes it _was!_

Instead of anger however, I found my love strangely thoughtful.

“What has happened?” I asked anxiously. This was a novel sort of reaction to a parental visit and I did not like anything novel, especially with our personal heaven so close now. 

He looked at me curiously.

“You remember that our nephew has just gone to Arbir for a time?” he said.

Of course I did, even if Mr. Tantalus Holmes was strictly speaking not even Sherlock's nephew let alone mine. Ostensibly the son of Sherlock's obnoxious eldest brother Mycroft he was in fact one of many offspring of the prodigious – all right, randy as hell Prince (now King) Tane of Strafford Island, whose state visit to Great Britain some decades back had left me exhausted while trying to keep tabs on the dog and many ladies in London society with more than a little explaining to do nine months down the line. The belated realization of how he had been cuckolded had been the last straw in the long overdue collapse of Mr. Mycroft Holmes's marriage, and I had been worried at the time that Sherlock's eldest brother might find some way to try to get back at us over it, since of course we were to blame for all _his_ failings.

Sherlock nodded at me.

“Yes, he has”, he said. “That his former wife and her new husband were presented to the King-Emperor seems to have driven him to do something extremely foolish, even by his low standards. He has done an interview for a weekly magazine called 'Tatler'. A society magazine.”

I knew that there had to be more to it than that.

“And?” I pressed.

“He has said, and I quote, 'it is not only the Douglases who have to deal with 'somdomites' trying to steal away the men in their family'”, he said. “He does not mention me, Carl or Luke by name, but his implication is clear.”

I winced. I did not wish to leave London on a sour note nor to have my friend's reputation marred in that way. The Edwardian attitude towards homosexuality was much the same as the Victorian one; fine provided that everyone can pretend not to know about it. Indeed the King-Emperor himself had put it most excellently when he had remarked that he did not mind what people did behind closed doors 'provided that it did not frighten the horses'! Mr. Mycroft Holmes broadcasting his accusations across London in some society rag could damage us greatly.

“What can we do?” I asked anxiously.

“Fortunately the matter is in hand”, he said, a smile returning. “Father contacted me, I went to the inimitable Miss St. Leger – she is briefly back in London while Mr. Zeuson finishes the extension to their new home in Dunwich – and she is using her not inconsiderable talents to quietly recall all the copies of the dratted rag. If we tried to pull them openly there would of course be a rush on the things. Also she is 'having a word' with the magazine publishers.”

He was right about human nature, unfortunately. There was nothing more likely to make people want to read something than denying them the chance so to do.

“So you went to talk to your father about this, then?” I asked, relaxing a little. He shook his head.

“No I went to see Mother”, he said. “She had to have a couple of stitches in her hand.”

“What for?” I asked. “Has she been injured?”

“Not exactly”, he grinned. “From when she hit Mycroft. He will be in hospital for the next two weeks which hopefully will give him plenty of time to learn to think before he acts in future. When he gets out it will be to discover that 'someone' gave Mother his latest address and she has had every one of his possessions removed and sold!”

I chuckled.

“By the way”, he said, “I have a case coming up soon on the sea-front at Marseilles. Would you be able to accompany me?”

I was surprised that he was going abroad at this late stage in his career but of course I agreed. I would do anything for my man.

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I was not pouting. I was not!

“I love it when you pout!” teased one soon to be ex-friend.

The reason for my annoyance was that a certain consulting detective, one who was not getting laid (and that included doing any laying) any time soon, had gone and lied to me. Well, not exactly lied but certainly been more than a little economical with the truth. When he had asked me how I had felt about a visit to Marseilles I had pictured a lovely spring break in the south of France, Sherlock in a swimming costume, sandy beaches, Sherlock in a swimming costume, fine wines, Sherlock in a swimming costume, good food, Sherlock out of a swimming costume..... a whole load of things. It was fortunate that I did not have a one-track mind, really.

And now, instead of the sultry warmth of the Mediterranean coast, we had just alighted from a cab outside 'Rensselaer', the bed and breakfast establishment of our former landlady and her husband. Bloody Eastbourne of all places, and with a wind blowing in that seemed to have come straight from the icy Arctic! This was not the South of France!

“This is not the south of France!” I said testily. He chuckled. 

“I believe that I promise you a case on the sea-front in Marseilles?” he reminded me.

“You did”, I said, shivering. “And?”

He pointed to the house next door to 'Rensselaer'. This too was a bed and breakfast establishment and went by the name of...

“'Marseilles'!” I groaned. “You are one mean consulting detective!”

“Never mind”, he growled. “I am sure that I can make it _up_ to you later!”

Seriously, how the blazes could I get an erection in this wind?

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The Malones greeted us warmly and showed us to our room. I did not blush when our former landlady very pointedly remarked that while there was only one bed, she had other guests who might enjoy some peace and quiet. 

I did not blush _much_. Besides, Sherlock did too.

“Why the name?” I asked over dinner. “Is it American?”

Mr. Malone nodded.

“First place I lived at in London; the owner came from that town in the American Mid-West”, he said gruffly. “He did food almost as good as Vi's.”

His wife blushed.

“Jo has been taking good care of you?” she asked.

“Very”, Sherlock said. “I shall miss Baker Street although one consolation will be that we shall not be far from here, so we shall doubtless see them when they visit.”

“That boy needs to get his damn finger out”, Mr. Malone said grumpily. “We're not getting any younger and we want to see the next generation!”

I forbore from commenting on the large number of certain injuries that I regularly treated Mr. Rockland for, which suggested that the lack of children was not through any lack of trying of someone's part. Thank the lord that we and the Rocklands had an unwritten agreement on Not Sharing certain things. One did not want to know...... well, one just did not want to _know!_

“It is all part of life”, Sherlock agreed. “So, why did you need us here?”

All these years and the inclusion of me in that 'us' still made me feel all warm inside.

“It is our neighbour, Mrs. Start at 'Marseilles', Mrs. Malone said. “Her guests have been acting very strangely of late, ever since that awful Miss Wolferton arrived.”

“Tell us everything”, Sherlock said before drinking his coffee down in a single draught.

“I still do not know how you can do that”, Mrs. Malone sighed, pouring him another one. “About a month back Miss Michaela Wolferton took a room next door. She is working at some archaeological dig up in Hailsham, Lord alone knows what for.”

“Aerolites”, Sherlock said. We all looked at him.

“Pardon?” Mrs. Malone said.

“I read about it last month”, he explained. “Someone found evidence that a large aerolite had struck just outside the town probably long before humans lived here, and they found it unusual because the metals in it were not what they expected.” He smiled when he saw our surprised faces. “I maintain an interest in all areas except the social pages, which is what I keep John around for.”

It was damnably unfair of our former landlady and her husband to laugh at that as it was completely untrue. Almost completely untrue. And that had better not be another damn smirk!

“Anyhow”, Mrs. Malone continued, “I thought it odd at first that she would not be staying with her fellow diggers as I know they have some sort of hostel place up there, but believe you me it did not take long to figure that one out! Most likely because they would have felt the urge to bury her rather than dig around in space dust!”

“The woman was awful!” Mr. Malone agreed. “First week she argued over everything and her voice carried right through the dividing wall, it was so damn shrill.”

“Has something happened to her?” I asked. 

For some reason our friends looked at each other.

“We are not sure”, Mrs. Malone said. “You see, that was what was so weird. She seemed to calm down after about a week and last Friday – I did not like to say it but I actually thought she might have been drunk!”

“Some ladies do drink”, Sherlock said mildly. I remembered our former landlady's pistol and wisely said nothing.

“Not this one!” Mr. Malone said fervently. “She was so High Church we suspected her of angling to become the next Archbishop of bloody Canterbury! And one of her favourite high horses was the evil of the demon drink; she went on about it all the time.”

“So it is her behaviour that is causing you concern?” Sherlock asked.

“Not just her”, Mrs. Malone said. “Some of her other guests were a bit off as well. Then last week poor Mr. Spencer went and fell off the pier!”

“How did he manage that?” I asked. 

“Lord alone knows”, Mr. Malone said. “Pete Sunderland, the local constable, told me that the man was definitely not drunk – with the people in this place, he would surely have known! – and it was sheer good luck that he went off the land end and into one of those beach-tent thingies. Injured but he is all right; the poor lady who was halfway through changing when he 'dropped in' probably suffered more as she sprained her ankle making a run for it! The strange thing was Pete said that he had most of the symptoms of being drunk except for his breath, which was clear.”

Sherlock thought for a moment then smiled. 

“It seems obvious enough”, he said to the evident surprise of all of us. “I assume that Mrs. Start is a person of small build, as is the suddenly accident-prone Mr. Spencer?”

“Yes”, Mrs. Malone said. “How did you know that?”

“Whereas in contrast Miss Wolferton is large lady?”

“Not a lady”, Mr. Malone grunted, “and bloody huge. Would probably get a place in a rugby team if she wanted!”

I sniggered at the image.

“None of your own guests have been behaving at all strangely?” Sherlock asked. Mrs. Malone shook her head.

“Nor those at Eleanor Biggs's place three doors down”, she said. “I wondered if it was something in the water even though we are all off the same pipe and I asked her about it, but she said no.”

“This 'dig' that Miss Wolferton is on”, Sherlock said. “I do not suppose that either of you happen to know when it is concluding?”

“I do”, Mr. Malone said. “They only found it because they were building some new houses on the edge of Hailsham. The developer fellow – very fairly in my opinion – gave them six weeks in which he could work round them then they would have to be off. They have two weeks left.”

A thought occurred to me.

“How did an American woman happen to get involved in an English dig?” I asked. “She could not have heard of it over there and crossed the Atlantic in so short a time, surely?”

“She is studying at a university in London”, Mrs. Malone explained, “and read about it so decided to come and 'help out'. I would wager that the other diggers were _so_ grateful!”

I smiled at the obvious insincerity in her tone. 

“Do you really know what has happened here?” I asked Sherlock.

“I know the fundamentals”, he said. “All that really needs clearing up is whether the actions involved were deliberate, accidental or a mixture of the two.”

“How could anyone accidentally make people act like they were drunk?” I asked.

“We had better go to see Mrs. Start, and find out”, he said with a smile.

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Mrs. Susan Start was an elderly and, as Sherlock had said, a very small woman who was in her late sixties. To save anyone asking, yes she did simper at someone, and no it was not me. One thing that I would _not_ miss when we were retired!

The landlady was clearly disappointed that we were not seeking rooms and Sherlock cut straight to the point.

“I am investigating a possible crime, madam”, he said. “A poisoning.”

I looked at him in surprise but said nothing. Fortunately the landlady was too alarmed by his words to notice.

“I can assure you that _no-one_ has been poisoned here, sir”, she said firmly. “I keep a Most Respectable House.”

I could hear the capitals. Sherlock sat back and smiled.

“Let me tell you a little story, Mrs. Start”, he said. “It concerns a landlady who, to her grave misfortune, acquires a most _irksome_ tenant. This tenant is a large, formidable and loud woman, who is very fond of her own opinions and believes that everyone should have the 'benefit' – as she if no-one else sees it – of hearing them. At every waking moment. She may only be in the area for a relatively short time but to those around her it seems so much longer.”

The landlady winced.

“However, shortly after her arrival the landlady in question makes a most fortuitous error”, Sherlock went on. “An omission in a grocery delivery leaves her short of mushrooms so, being unable to order more and needing some for the next day's breakfasts, she takes a walk in the charming woods behind her home and picks some wild mushrooms that grow there.”

I looked out of the nearby window to the trees beyond and suppressed a smile. I could see where this story was going now.

“The landlady, ever eager to save a penny here and a ha'penny there, picks many mushrooms”, Sherlock said, “and begins to use her supply over the next few days. Almost immediately she notices a change in all her guests, notably in the loudest and most unpleasant of them. Being a lady of _considerable_ intelligence this landlady quickly puts two and two together, and realizes that one of the properties of the mushrooms that she has picked must be to bring about a calm tranquillity among those who eat them.”

Mrs. Start had gone bright red at this point.

“This discovery places the landlady in a somewhat difficult position”, Sherlock went on. “She does not wish to _poison_ her guests – not a good idea for anyone in her business, for obvious reasons – but..... let us be frank and say that the peace and quiet is so wonderful! She also knows that her formerly loud guest will be gone in a few weeks anyway. Doubtless she ensures that only the woman in question receives the new mushrooms most of the time, with one or two going to the other guests occasionally.”

“Unfortunately one of her guests nearly exposes her actions when he 'slips his leash' one day and takes advantage of Miss Wolferton leaving some mushrooms behind on her plate. He is a small man – that was how I knew that fact, doctor – and his size makes him more susceptible that most. He is saved by a fortunately-placed beach-tent even if the lady inside it is somewhat traumatized, and his landlady is subsequently more careful. So once more all marches well – until her neighbour turns out to know a consulting detective who comes down for a holiday and finds out what has been going on.”

“I shall stop at once”, she promised.

“I do not think that that would be wise”, I said to her evident astonishment. “You see, you have been supplying these things to her body for some time now and to suddenly remove them might cause all sorts of complications, in the same way people can have bad reactions when they stop taking strong drugs or medicine. You said that she is to leave in two weeks' time?”

She nodded, looking fearfully at us both.

“Then I suggest that you slowly reduce the dose to zero over that time by mixing in more and more normal mushrooms”, I said, silently thinking that I was somewhat stretching my maxim of 'first do no harm'. Then again, a sudden withdrawal of the 'poisons' could indeed be more dangerous than a clean break, and I was sure that Mrs. Malone and Mr. Malone would thank me for the continued peace and quiet. “That way, her body will be able to more easily adapt to the lack of suppressant and there should still be enough in her system to ensure... er.....”

“That she does not return to being her normal and terrible self?” Sherlock suggested. We all laughed.

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Mr. Malone and Mrs. Malone had gone out for a drive so we took a walk along the sea-front before returning to Rensselaer and telling them all. I looked north to where the downs began, and sighed. Somewhere out there was a beautiful cottage just for us, and we were so close.

“I do not see the point of these beach-houses”, I complained as we walked past the gaily-coloured doors. “There does not seem to be enough room inside to swing a cat.”

“I am not sure as to why even someone with your dislike of felines would wish to do that”, Sherlock said dryly. “So you are against such edifices?”

“I suppose so”, I said. “They seem pointless really.”

He stopped by a red-doored beach-house and smiled strangely, producing a key from his pocket.

“So if I suggested sex in one of these, you would be against the idea?” he said slyly.

I was suddenly having difficulty breathing as he coolly unlocked the thing and walked in. Inside there was indeed barely room to lie down and we knocked against each other as we tried to get undressed....

Ye Gods he was not wearing any underwear! That was just unfair! I was going to die before I had my cottage!

“No you are not, John”, he said showing that freaky and not at all endearing mind-reading ability of his. “Get a move on old fellow!”

I scowled and hurried out of the rest of my clothes, not helped by his working my erection as I did so. He was already up on the small bench that was the only furniture in this place and clearly ready to impale himself on me.

“You need to be worked open”, I grumbled, cross at the delay. He smirked.

“Plug”, he said pointing downwards. Seriously I was going to lose it! 

“You interviewed that damn landlady in no underwear and with a plug in you?” I marvelled. “You, Sherlock Holmes, are a pervert!”

“Says the man who is about to take me in an Eastbourne beach-house!” he replied cheekily. “Ready?”

I nodded and helped him remove the plug before easing him down onto me. At fifty-two years of age I was not as fit as I once had been but slotting inside the man I love gave me an energy that I did not know that I had, especially when he began to work himself up and down me making me moan in delight. 

“I love you!” he said fiercely. “In two months' time we shall be in our own little country retreat where we can have sex all day and every day!”

That was it. I came violently, moaning my release to the four close walls and he followed me barely a second later, painting my chest with his spend. It was heaven.

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The look we got from both the Malones when we got back was somewhat less enjoyable.

“You two!” Mr. Malone grumbled, handing some coins over to his wife. “I backed tonight, damnation!”

“Easiest five bob I ever made!” his wife grinned, pocketing her winnings.

Whatever. I was too happy to care.

Six months to go.

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	12. Case 355: The Saving Of Thomas Sullivan Magnum ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1904\. Doctor John Hamish Watson would like it put on record that he is not at all jealous when handsome, charismatic and powerful men come into his life. Especially when Sherlock is asked to break the law to help them. So there!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

There was a cuckoo in the 221B nest!

I had not really expected that our path to that wonderful cottage on the Downs and the enjoyment of all that rural splendour (with those super-reinforced beds!) would be a smooth one. With our luck, such an expectation would have been totally unrealistic. But even with the fellow temporarily residing downstairs and currently sitting in our fireside chair with an innocent look that even John would not have believed, this was just downright _annoying!_

What made it even more so was that the fellow before us, Mr. Thomas Sullivan Magnum (the Fourth, apparently; so much for the Good Lord not repeating mistakes!) was stuck here until I could find a way to get rid of him. A tall, charming and handsome fellow in his thirties, he had most unwisely used his charms on the American deputy ambassador's wife. 

And both of that gentleman's sisters.

_And all three of his damn daughters!_

Normally I would not have been inclined to help such a fellow had there not been two other factors in play. First the whole sorry mess had drawn in my unpleasant brother Randall, who was clearly chafing at the tight grip that Muriel now exerted on his life and was eager for some payback by getting his hands on this fellow and dragging him off to Grosvenor Square, where he would most likely be chopped up and sent back across the wide blue waters in a number of diplomatic bags. Second, the other fellow who was in the room with us, Captain Jonathan Higgins, was a close friend of Major Sholto under whom John had served under during his stint in Egypt three decades back. The captain had been appointed by the British government to keep an eye on Mr. Magnum during his stay as he had been sent over on a matter of business that was important in some way (clearly someone Over There had distrusted the fellow, rightly so as things had turned out), hence he was as eager as anyone to sort this whole thing out. Although from the way that he was looking across at the American, perhaps if I slipped the two of them out the back door an 'accident' might happen.....

I blamed John for making me think like that.

“I don't know why they do not just march in and grab me”, Mr. Magnum sighed, running his hand through his dark curly hair.

“Because Sherlock here has enough on both the police and the government to make them think twice”, John said, cynically if accurately. “Otherwise that pest of a brother of his would be round like a shot!”

“Having had experience of such people myself”, Captain Higgins said frostily, “shot is what Mr. Magnum is likely to be when he pokes his nose outside the door of this place.”

The younger man glared at him. It would have taken a detective of close to zero ability to have worked out that these two had one of those love-hate relationships which had not gotten round to the love part yet, and most certainly never would. Perhaps if John and I looked out of the window for a time....

“We had better go back to my room and think what to do”, Mr. Magnum sighed heavily. “If even you cannot think of a way out Mr. Holmes, then I might as well hand myself in.”

Tempting though that prospect was – it had been two whole days without sex even if it felt like two whole years – I would not give my brother the satisfaction of a success this late in our relationship. He was already grinding his teeth after Mother had said what she would do to him if anyone ever found out where our cottage was. It had been quite bad of John to suggest writing her an anonymous letter from someone claiming to have heard it from him.

Probably bad.

We would see.

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John sighed with relief once the handsome American was gone, but it was not to be his lucky day. Barely half an hour later a card was sent up from another caller, and my eyebrows rose when I saw the name on it. I told Betty to send the gentleman straight up.

“Who is it?” John asked.

“Someone that we have never met before, yet know of”, I said cryptically.

He pouted, which was damnably unfair of him given the circumstances. He knew full well what that made me want to do with him, and my eagerness to solve this case rose still further. Like something else; mercifully I had worn the looser trousers for once.

A gentleman of about thirty years of age was announced and I could feel John's horror at his appearance. Some ten years younger than his illustrious brother but unmistakably of the same blood, up to and including the look he gave me that had 'someone' visibly uneasy in seconds. Prince Pale of Strafford Island, younger brother of the King Tane who had given poor John such a runaround back in 1882 and fathered a number of offspring during his brief stay here including my 'nephew' Tantalus.

“Greetings, gentlemen”, the prince smiled. “My brother wished that he too could come to England but with the political situation as it is just now he cannot leave our island home.”

I knew to what he was referring, as the Americans had recently and quite foully engineered the overthrown of the Hawaiian monarchy and seized their lands as a new territory. This had given them an important base halfway across the Pacific and there had been subtle pressure from Washington D.C. that they would really appreciate it if the British might end their relationship with nearby Strafford Island. To their credit London had responded with a very firm 'No'.

“I take it His Majesty is well?” I asked.

“He and his dear Tiny”, our guest assured us. “Both behaving as badly as ever, of course. It is the political situation that brings me here today, for in your unwelcome guest downstairs I see a rather interesting opportunity.”

“Go on”, I said. 

“The Americans are staging what they call a naval exercise south of Hawaii next month”, he said. 

He looked at me pointedly.

“What?” John asked.

“Our guest means that the Americans are undertaking what is known in the trade as sabre-rattling”, I said. “They do not like the British having a base that close to what they regard as _their_ sphere of influence, I suppose much as we would resent it if they somehow acquired the Shetland Isles.”

“My brother will not be bullied by such behaviour”, the prince said firmly, “and has instructed me to inform all nations that we shall do whatever it takes to maintain our independence.”

“What about Mr. Magnum?” I asked.

“They do say that sometimes a blunt weapon is best!” he grinned. “So this is what I suggest....”

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By the time that our guest left, John's pout was almost reaching across the street, especially after the prince had come and sat next to me to go through the details of our plan. 

“How can he not be sure that the Americans are not listening in on his conversations with that randy lit.... with his brother?” he scowled.

 _Not jealous at all_ , I thought with a smile. 

“I am sure that they have made sure to establish a separate line of communication that is secure”, I said, “so that when those in Washington D.C. read their messages they will come away with the impression that the whole royal family is a bunch of frankly insane Anglophiles. Indeed I would wager that they have also intercepted some preliminary discussions about tightening the treaty between our nations to allow British ships full rights in a greatly expanded port.”

“Politics”, he sighed. “A dirty game everywhere in the world.”

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Surprisingly we did receive a visit from Randall the next day. The fact that Mrs. Rockland was stood outside her rooms with her pistol cocked and ready was, I hoped, enough of a hint even for the likes of him not to try anything.

Or perhaps I hoped he would. I would never have been able to find my brother's gun-collecting killer in such a dreadful and terrible turn of events.

“You had a visit from Prince Pale of Strafford Island yesterday”, the pest began tersely.

 _“Pah-lay_ , not pale”, I said reprovingly. “Yes, John and I know his father.”

“As do half the women in bloody London!” my brother groused.

I was impressed that John had somehow obtained both a pot and a kettle which he now held up. My brother scowled at his excellent and quite accurate point.

“Balfour will not let this fellow out of the country”, Randall said firmly. “We need the Americans too much to let this sort of thing come between us, just because one of their citizens wanted to get his leg over. They want him to go back and face justice there.”

“Given the influence that the current American ambassador has with his president, I very much doubt that Mr. Magnum would get much in the way of justice”, I said dryly. “No, I think that other methods are called for.”

“What are you doing to do, Sherlock?” my brother scoffed. “You cannot keep this fellow here forever. You yourself will be out in six months.”

“I do hope that neither you nor anyone in authority is unwise enough to try to circumvent my plans, Randall”, I said. “You may inform your political masters that my displeasure would start with the cabinet minister whose wife makes rather irregular use of his valet....”

“How the blazes did you know that?” my brother all but yelled, shooting to his feet.

“Then I would follow that up by suggesting to Mother that she pursues her most excellent idea of having you and Muriel move in with her.”

He looked absolutely horrified, as well he might. All those stories, just a few steps away! Hah!

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The following day we had Mr. Magnum and Captain Higgins back to our room. The young man looked hopefully at me and had clearly not noticed the slight smile on his room-mate's face. I was impressed that he was restricting himself so well; he had to be ecstatic inside.

“Any hope?” Mr. Magnum asked.

“Yes” I said. “I have secured you a new job.”

He looked utterly confused.

“How does that help?” he asked.

“It is the post of security guard to the ambassador's house”, I said carefully.

He looked as horrified as Randall had been the day before.

“You can't send me there!” he gasped. “They will kill me for sure!”

“Not the American ambassador in London”, I said. “The Straffordian ambassador for the Hawaiian Islands.”

“How does that help?” he demanded. “Straffordian? Where's that?”

“Strafford Island is a small but strategically important nation roughly equidistant between the Hawaiian Islands and the Equator”, Captain Higgins said dryly. “A most excellent move if I may be allowed to say, sir.”

“Why do you say that?” Mr. Magnum asked.

“Because in that post you will have Strafford Island citizenship”, I said, “which will be completed when you sign that document on the table over there. You can then leave the country with Prince Pale of that island who is visiting England just now, which means that no-one will be able to touch you as you will be a foreign citizen even when you are on American soil.”

“Hawaii!” Mr. Magnum said, beginning to smile. “Girls in grass skirts. Wowee!”

I coughed pointedly.

“There is _one_ more thing, sir”, I said casually.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Prince Pale also needed someone for the position of head of security at the embassy”, I said. “Someone with a good track record of giving orders and keeping control of, ahem, more wayward staff members.”

I looked pointedly at Captain Higgins, whose smile was now off the scale. Mr. Magnum followed my gaze and, finally, got it.

“Hell no!” he yelled.

“The alternative is to go and face American justice”, I said dryly, “which given what the deputy ambassador whose family you 'attended to' said he wanted to have done to you, might be risky. I am not quite sure that it is physically possible but I am sure that you would not wish to find out the hard way. Or you can sign that document and enjoy sun, sea, sand....”

“And serving under me!” Captain Higgins finished.

I do not think that I had ever seen a man look more condemned. Mr. Magnum looked piteously at me as if that would somehow get me to change my mind, then trudged slowly over to the table and signed his life away. It was probably wrong of the captain to draw his finger across his neck like that but... whatever.

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Prince Pale collected our two guests the following day. Mrs. Rockland, bless her, told us that meals would be left outside the door for a week and that I was to try not to break anything. Except the doctor. 

She really was terrible! And I did not break John. 

That much.

Five and a half months to go.

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	13. Interlude: A Policeman's Lot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1904\. An officer of the law has some Bad Thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galleron Lestrade (born 1870) is the fourth son of The Great Cake-Detector (Mark One), and elder twin brother to Iseult.

**[Narration by Sergeant Galleron LeStrade]**

I suppose it was my own damn stupid fault. I'd gone round to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes to talk to him about the Quainton Street Robbery – broad daylight, dammit! – only to find that my own father was calling as well. I'd known he was due in London soon and I should've remembered; today was one of Mrs. Rockland's baking days.

Don't get me wrong; I don't begrudge the old man his happiness especially at his age. But that he retired and moved into the same house as Tobias Gregson of all people? Worse, the two of them almost in each other's laps as they sat there? It's bad enough without having to put up with Gregson's whelp of the same name who, and Lord alone knows how, also made sergeant this year. They chose me first of course, but then decided to scrape the bottom right off the bloody barrel for the second post that came up. I can only guess the station cat turned them down.

The other annoying thing is that young Tobias has a lion's mane of hair while I (like my old dad) started going bald in my late twenties and have shaved my head ever since. Gives me the barely controlled savage look, which is a lot better when dealing with criminals than a nancy who looks as if he's just emerged from six hours in the hairdresser's while still styling their precious locks. And despite what some smart-arses at the station say we're _not_ related just because his brother married my sister. As if!

Mr. Holmes was able to help me with a few pointers to the robbery, though my own damn father pouted when I got a slice of what was obviously his (or his cuddle-bunny's) cake to take back to the station with me. Then just when I was congratulating myself on a successful visit, Doctor Watson quite deliberately dropped into the conversation that that whelp Tobias had been round already and had snaffled a slice for himself. 

You can't trust anyone these days!

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	14. Case 356: The Adventure Of The Quietest Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1904\. With just months to go before their retirement, Sherlock and John travel to Shropshire to investigate some risqué photographs and a hair-raising disappearance – but who needs rescuing from whom?

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

_“'Clunton and Clunbury,'_   
_'Clungunford and Clun.'_   
_'Are the quietest places,'_   
_'Under the sun.'†”_

I looked up in surprise at my beloved John. He really should have known better than to start reciting poetry at me before my second cup of coffee of a morning.

Third cup.

All right, my fifth. It was not as if I could marry the coffee-machine; as I had so amply demonstrated when John had said that he could do at least some things that the machine most definitely could not. Although with the ever onwards march of technology, who knew what they could come up with in the future? A robotic lover that could then help you recover with instant coffee and bacon.... you never knew with technology going the way it was.

“What has brought this on?” I asked, diverting myself from some Very Happy Thoughts.

“The fellow waiting downstairs”, he frowned, waving the card that had just been sent up. “General Roland McCall of His Majesty's Loyal Shropshire Foot. He has a house in Craven Arms in that county and is often in the newspapers.”

“I take it from your expression that what you know of him is not good?” I said. He nodded.

“He is one of those loud generals who is always sounding off about the Dreadful Decline In Standards These Days”, he said in a mock military tone that made me smile. “He has five sons and three daughters; I know of them because one daughter, Iris, married my old colleague Owen Pardew's grandson, another Owen, and like him she has nearly finished training in our profession. All five boys are in the Army; the youngest Scott has I believe just joined his father's regiment.”

I smiled knowingly.

“What else have you gathered from those social pages that you only ever very rarely glance at in passing?” I inquired. “When of course you have the time and if you just happen to be in the vicinity of a newspaper open at that particular set of pages.” 

He looked at me frostily. If he Pouted then I could not be held responsible for any horizontal or even vertical repercussions, waiting general or no waiting general!

“A military family through and through”, he said, his eyes widening slightly as he accurately (if belatedly) divined my intentions, “including various cousins also in the military. Scottish in origin as the name suggests but that branch has been in the Welsh March for many years now. Owen told me that the general was not best pleased that a daughter of his joined our profession, but as his wife had inherited a large sum as of her own right I suppose that she was able to skirt around that. Thankfully the law these days mean that she kept the money.”

“I wonder why he has come all the way from the far reaches of Mercia?” I mused.

“We had better have him up and see”, he said.

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I held a variable view of the British Army, especially after the way that they had treated poor young Jimmy Douglas (now happily married and living on the American east coast with a family of his own, I am pleased to say). Like all oversized institutions I expected some degree of corruption and mismanagement – I had always noted that those who claimed larger establishments to be more efficient were somehow never themselves efficient enough to provide any evidence of their claims – and while I admired the individual fighting soldier I was less well disposed towards those further up the food chain. 

General Roland Theodosius Alistair McCall seemed set on reinforcing that belief although it probably did not help matters that he was an Alistair, a name that I have long loathed for obvious reasons. He was in his early fifties, a bluff white-haired fellow with a handlebar moustache and a seemingly permanent scowl. Presumably our famous fireside chair was insufficiently commodious to house his ego as he sat down on the couch without being invited and stared hard at us. I tried not to think of what John and I had done on the same couch two days ago, almost exactly where the fellow was sitting.... thank the Lord for my innate flexibility! And for well-made furniture!

“Fellow at my club says that you can find things”, he said bluntly. “My boy Scott has gone missing.”

I thought that a rather curious thing way to put things.

“Have you informed the police about this?” I asked politely. 

He reddened for some reason. 

“Damn coward ran away from his regiment when it was stationed at Clun, not far from the house”, he said. “No backbone the young generation, although my other four boys are all right.”

The fellow had barely been there a minute yet he was already grating on my nerves. Also he had the same sort of shiftiness that told me there was probably a lot more to whatever had happened that he would be 'forgetting to tell me'. I made a mental note to send to Swordland's as soon as he was safely out of the room, which event could not come soon enough.

“You wish for me to find him?” I asked.

Our unpleasant visitor reddened even further, then reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a small booklet which he passed over to me.

“Page seventeen”, he said shortly.

Thinking to myself that good manners were clearly not a perquisite for advancement in the modern British Army, I turned to the suggested page in what was a catalogue for a small art gallery that I had visited with John on one occasion. It featured a photograph of a naked young gentleman entitled 'Sir Come-Scribe'; he was about twenty years of age with various pieces of clothing scattered nearby. The saucy fellow was very clearly of some flexibility from the way he was lying on a pommel-horse and holding one leg almost vertical, with only the top of his departed trousers close to the camera covering his modesty. And then only just.

We were not in the Victorian Age any more!

“McCullough, who is in the same barracks as my son”, the general sneered. “Saw him one time the rat; the family is Irish which figures. Disgusting filth! I sent their sergeant-major a letter demanding to know what the hell was going on and saying that I was coming to see him pretty damn quick, and he wrote back to say that the rat denied it was him and by the way my son had run off when he had mentioned my coming. I want my boy dragged back to his regiment and made a man; you can go sort it out for me and I will be there this weekend to see your findings. My card.”

“One moment”, I said, mentally adding this villain's hatred of my birth country to his long list of failings. “I will need rather more if I am to be of assistance. For one thing, who is this sergeant-major?”

He frowned at that question for some reason.

“A passable stick called Jones”, he said. “But he was shilly-shallying around on the frankly pathetic of excuse of getting a cast put on his broken leg, which is a damn poor show if you ask me.”

I looked pointedly at him.

“You are asking me to go to the Welsh March and look for someone called Jones?” I said archly. “That is, to coin a phrase, a needle in several shires full of hay-fields.”

He scowled at my wit, then at John for his poorly suppressed snigger.

“Jones is back with the regiment in Hereford now”, he said. “Wellington Barracks. You will inform me of your progress. Make it soon.”

He stood and left without as much as a goodbye. Apparently we were expected to take his case.

“It would serve him right if you did nothing”, John said. 

“Unfortunately there is also the boy to consider”, I said ruefully. “Would you like to be in his shoes when or if his father catches up with him?”

John winced. He got my point.

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There was to be another and rather surprising development in the case before we could decamp to the March. Just after I had sent out to our friend Ginger for whatever he had on our unpleasant client (hopefully something incriminating!) we had an unexpected but welcome visitor. To wit Mr. Peter Wolf whose father we had helped a couple of years back. 

“There has not been a problem with your father?” I asked. I had pursuant to the matter of the stolen gold bars made arrangements to prevent any retaliatory action being taken against Mr. Thomas Wolf; as I have said before, one could never fully trust large institutions.

“No, he and Colt are as bad as ever”, Mr. Wolf grinned. “They were kind enough to take the children for a week recently so I could take Edie to Scotland after the birth of Octavian; she was a little down after being advised to have no more children although I was quite relieved if truth be told as eight of the little blighters running around is more than enough for me! Plus to see Colt weeping buckets with Kay in his arms – it was wonderful. Although it is family that brings me here today.”

“Go on”, I said.

“I believe that you may have been unfortunate enough to endure a visit from General McCall.”

“How did you know that?” John asked. Mr. Wolf sighed.

“Unhappily we have a connection”, he said. “My Aunt Brunnhilda – and yes, she really is like her name! – married a Welsh corporal called Huwel Jones and they had several children including a son, my cousin Bryn.”

He caught my expression and nodded.

“Yes, the Sergeant-Major Bryn Jones in charge of the regiment when young Private Scott McCall decided to abscond”, he said ruefully. “The general came to see Father when he got to London yesterday; naturally being the thug that he is he commented on certain lifestyle choices and was forcibly thrown out by Colt. He can get angry when provoked, for all that he is such a big softie around his 'Cuddle Bunny'.”

We both smiled at the appellation.

“So you knew that he would come to us next”, I said.

“He told Father that someone at one of his clubs had recommended you”, Mr. Wolf sighed, “before he sounded off once too often.”

“Have you ever met your military cousin?” I asked. Our visitor shook his head.

“But I know that he got married some years back to a local lady, a Miss Ruth Hale”, he said. “Even if we did not have the connection, I would not wish the general on my worst enemy.”

I looked pointedly at him. He blushed.

“Maybe just a short visit to my mother-in-law?” he admitted ruefully.

We both laughed.

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It had been a long and trying journey from London to the Welsh March, especially for John who had been fucked about a dozen times and had had to have a sit-down at Hereford Station before he could make it out to a cab. Although his face when one of the porters had offered him a wheelchair – hah! Before we had left London I had had time to read the copious notes on our client that Miss St. Leger had managed to assemble in the short time available to her. Very interesting; they opened up several possibilities to resolve matters to the satisfaction of just about everyone. Except of course our deeply unpleasant client. 

Which was even better.

The British sergeant-major is of course a legend in his own time, and Mr. Wolf's cousin Sergeant-Major Bryn Jones looked very much a typical example when we met him at the Wellington Barracks just outside the town of Hereford. He was a tall spare fellow in his late thirties with light-brown hair and curious turquoise eyes. He seemed affable enough but that might well change, given the circumstances.

“I am making inquiries about a soldier who recently left your regiment in an unauthorized manner”, I said. “One Private Scott McCall.”

There was no visible reaction in the sergeant-major's appearance and yet I knew that he had tensed up.

“General McCall's boy”, he said. “I was having this plaster put on at the time or as he would doubtless have described it to you, 'shilly-shallying about on the pathetic excuse of a broken leg'.”

“But you were at Clun when the boy absconded?” I asked. 

He hesitated but nodded.

“The general asked you to find him, I suppose”, he said.

There was something not quite right about his answers. I paused and decided to change tack.

“You see, sir”, I said, “I admit that my knowledge of military matters is poor. But my knowledge of human nature does somewhat remedy that deficiency. I find it frankly incredible that any soldier could slip out of a barracks undetected and just disappear – _unless he had had help._

There. A definite flicker.

“I am going to take this opportunity to remind you of something”, I pressed. “The doctor and I always follow justice first and the law second. Having met the general I have little doubt that his youngest son was not happy at home, and it is my guess that his father had forced him into a military career. If you trust us with the truth of what really happened, I promise that we shall put the boy's interests first and foremost.”

I wondered for a moment if he would continue to resist, but he sighed and nodded.

“You must understand, gentlemen”, he said, “that I have been a sergeant-major for nearly a decade. They keep wanting to promote me but I have seen the next level up and I hate it. I think that I am good at what I do and I enjoy doing it. Most times.”

“The thing that I love most in my job is finding that special something in a fellow that I can ignite and that will make him into a soldier, not just a man. It took me all of five seconds to see that Scott, bless the lad, did not have as much as a scruple of it. As you say he came into the army because his father made him, something that did not surprise me in the least as the blackguard has a dreadful reputation across the March. I knew full well that Scott would fail, and I knew that when he did it would not be good.”

I thought for a moment.

“There is another matter which complicates things somewhat”, I said carefully. “It concerns certain artistic photographs.”

He blushed fiercely. His next words surprised me considerably.

“It was nothing improper”, he said a little defensively. “Ruth does photography as a hobby and some of the boys agreed to pose for her. There are rules in the Army about making money elsewhere but we made it all fair and right by them; they all know that for all they call me a bastard behind my back I am a man of my word. I had no idea the damn things would be so popular that my friend down in London would get a gallery to take some. Now the general has gotten his teeth into it, nothing will let the blackguard let go.”

“I rather think that I might persuade him so to do”, I said. “Can you tell us what happened to Private McCall?” 

His smile faded but he nodded.

“It came about because of Ruth's brother Drake”, he said. “He has a farm in the Clun Valley near where we were stationed at the time of Scott's disappearance. Their eldest son Derek reached twenty-one recently and came to visit me here just after. He had been having some trouble with some of the local youths who had been teasing him over his hair, so I had some of the boys drop round and put things to rights.”

“What was wrong with his hair?” I asked.

“His body-hair”, the sergeant-major amended. “One of the hairiest fellows you ever did see; he takes after his father in that respect. Some time after that, that was when it happened. Pitt, my batman, told me that Scott had suddenly become very keen on surveying, going round the area to create a map of the place and anything of interest. It was not so much that he was not athletic – he always looked a couple of meals away from starvation though his figures were healthy enough – but this keenness to get out and about worried me. So one day I followed him.”

“I had a hunch what he was up to and I was right. He went to my sister's farm which is not far from the village of Clungunford, one of the ones that was supplying us food and drink for our time in the area. Derek came out to meet him – _and they kissed!”_

I looked pointedly at the sergeant-major who shrugged his soldiers.

“That sort of thing happens in the barracks, sirs”, he said, “and I have no mind to it provided it does not interfere in what happens on the battlefield. McCullough, the fellow Ruth did for 'Sir Come-Scribe', he is one and the other fellows accept that; they know he would always have their backs in the field. What they do and who they do it with is their business providing it is not done in my time or affects their jobs; they know me well enough that anyone who behaved like that would be shown the door. I could see the general either having a coronary or being tried for his son's murder – perhaps even mine – if he found out. Scott hurried back to the barracks but of course I was there long before him.”

“He did not see you?” I asked. The soldier shook his head.

“I want what is best for all the boys under my care”, he said heavily. “For over ninety-nine per cent of them that is a life in the army; it is rare that the selection process lets anyone unsuitable through unless, like Scott, they get pushed in by family. He will never be a soldier, that I can guarantee, but he is still one of my boys and I care for the fellow. I am sure you can see that if the general catches up with him, it will not end well.”

“I would like to ask something at this point”, I said. “Why did Private McCall choose to disappear so near to his father's home? Was it because of the general's discovery of the photograph?”

“Partly”, the sergeant-major admitted. “His mother had been ill for the past year and he was often visiting her, although as I am sure you can imagine he had to time his visits to when his bully of a father was not there.”

He looked at me pointedly. I knew from Miss St. Leger folder just what he was not telling me there, namely what the general had likely done in taking a strap to his own son at times. Perhaps a nice trip to the country for some of Sweyn's boys to help 'remind' said general what was and what was not acceptable behaviour. Some people could only ever learn life's lessons the hard way.

“Then I got the letter from the blackguard demanding to know what the hell was going on”, he said. “I knew what would happen when I told Scott; sure enough Derek came over that same day and they slipped out of the camp that evening. I put Pitt on duty with McCullough as I knew they could both be trusted to not see what needed to be not seen. My sister let me know he was with her the next day; they live in an isolated place so there is little chance of his being found even in a search.”

“I shall need to visit your brother-in-law and his son”, I said, “and ensure that they do have the boy's best interests at heart. But do not worry, sergeant-major. If all is as it seems then I have a range of moves to throw the general off his son's track, and indeed to make sure that he stops looking for him completely. Also I shall not forget Private McCullough; no-one deserves to have the general on their trail.”

“Thank you, sirs.”

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It was a pleasant journey of a little over an hour from Hereford to Craven Arms, followed by a short carriage ride. The countryside in this part of Shropshire was I thought like that poem of John's, quiet and rather charming. Parliament Farm lay at the end of a narrow track a little way west of the village of Clungunford.

“An unusual name”, I remarked.

“There was once a parliament held at Acton Burnell, which is not far from here”, John said. “In the thirteenth century, when parliaments could be held wherever the king was rather than always in London.”

“My mine of historical information”, I smiled at him. 

He smiled at that.

“A mine into which I intend to delve _very_ deeply”, I added, my voice suddenly dropping, “all the way back to London Town!” 

Which was why he had to steady his breathing just moments before we met Mr. Derek Hale – and Mr. Scott McCall, late of His Majesty's Loyal Shropshire Regiment.

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We had to open a gate to enter the farm buildings themselves and the obscenely loud creak must have drawn the attention of the occupants of that building. Three gentlemen came out and even the worst consulting detective in the world could have worked out who was who. Mr. Drake Hale was a larger, older and broader version of his son Derek who was skulking behind him; the sergeant-major had not understated just how hirsute both men were. Mr. Scott McCall was similar in build to his friend and if anything even more slender, as well as considerably less hairy. He was however rather regrettably possessed of what was presumably meant to have been a moustache, but we all make mistakes when young. Even ones as bad as that!

“Greetings”, I said. “We have come from Sergeant-Major Jones. May we go inside to escape this shower and talk things over like gentlemen?”

“How do I know you're not from Scott's father?” Mr. Drake Hale demanded, very visibly positioning himself in front of the two young men.

“The general did request my services”, I conceded noting how both young men turned pale at that. “However, having seen how things are I am inclined to deliver him justice. Although maybe not the sort that he is expecting.”

Mr. Drake Hale seemed uncertain but nodded and led the way inside, although I noted that he kept his huge frame between us and his charges. Inside he poured drinks and we sat on opposite sides of a table, his son and his son's friend either side of him.

“The key thing here”, I said, “is to persuade the general to stop looking for his son.”

Mr. Drake Hale laughed hollowly.

“Going to travel to the Moon while you are at it?” he said.

I took a deep breath. This was not going to be easy.

“Although I would much rather not discuss such matters”, I said looking at Mr. McCall, “my investigations into your father uncovered that he is even more of a brute than I had first thought, incredible though that seems. Your mother, alas, is one of those brave ladies who is resigned to her fate so I was compelled to do something rather unorthodox. A burglar friend of mine broke into her home and stole her diary which I then had copied before he returned it, undetected. I believed, and I was correct to believe, that she would use that book as an outlet for her sorrows at her so-called husband's foul treatment.”

Young Mr. McCall shook at that but, I noted, did not look surprised. His friend moved round to sit next to him and wrapped a hairy arm around him, pulling him close.

“I shall be informing your father that I have that information”, I went on, “and that if her persists in his current bad ways then I shall feel perfectly entitled to share it with the whole world. I have also found out that he has been making covert efforts to destroy his daughter's medical career, which he will be told to desist from. Should he decide that he knows better – something that I consider all too likely given his actions thus far – then I shall arrange for some friends of mine to 'chance to bump into him' of an evening and to make sure that he fully understands the way things are now. Much as I might wish it to be otherwise bullies like him often only understand one language in my experience, that of the violence they themselves use.

They all looked at me uncertainly.

“Why would you help me?” Mr. McCall said quietly.

“Because”, I said, “we follow justice before the law. I do not believe that you have had a good life up to now Mr. McCall, but I rather think that working here on the farm will remedy that. 

Mr. Drake Hale smiled as his son moved round to sit by Mr. McCall.

“Scott is ours now”, he said. “We will put some meat on those slender bones of his before long.”

The two young men held each other while looking hopefully at me. I smiled reassuringly at them both, they deserved some happiness.

“Then it is our pleasure to wish you good day”, I said. “Once I have informed the general of the way things are, I will send a telegram to let you know all is well. Mr. Hale, I am trusting you with something most precious. Do not let me down.”

“I swear that I shall not, sir!” the farmer said firmly.

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We stopped at Wellington Barracks again on the way back to tell Sergeant-Major Jones what we had done and intended to do, and promised to keep him informed until matters were finally resolved. We also saw and reassured an anxious Private McCullough. I felt once again that those in the lower reaches of our armed forces were in some ways far better human beings that those in the upper ones.

John may have described me as not one of the better human beings after I clipped a cock-ring into him shortly after we had left Hereford Station and spent the whole journey teasing him. It took him five minutes to stand and get out of the coach, and the yelp he gave when he stepped down onto the platform had two porters come running. He actually cried in the bumpy cab back to Baker Street, from which he took a full two minutes to get out. I would have made a remark about our landlady Mrs. Rockland's smirking, but I thought of that gun collection and very wisely decided against it. 

I wanted to make it to that cottage!

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There still remained the unpleasant task of dealing with General McCall. I laid in some extra bath salts as I always felt, perhaps irrationally, that after dealing with a particularly unpleasant client I could 'wash them off' afterwards. Also a bath holding John's beautiful body in what was most definitely a manly embrace was always good, whatever the reason.

“I shall start with the photograph”, I told our obnoxious visitor. “I am afraid that it is not of Private McCullough at all, and had you charged into the barracks and accused him it would certainly have ended very badly for you.”

“Dammit, sir....”

“The gentleman in the picture is one Mr. Ennis O'Callahan, also an Irishman”, I went on, determined to not let him speak any more than was necessary. “He hales from the same town as Mr. McCullough so I suppose that they may be distant cousins of some sort, but only Mr. O'Callahan has the distinctive pattern of three moles in a line across his brazenly-displayed thigh. I saw Private McCullough and he was prepared to strip for me; he has no such marks. Mr. O'Callahan is, you should also know, distantly related to the Earl of Cavan who, I am sure I do not need to remind you, is renowned for his litigious ways. Had you accused even a distant relative of his, you would most certainly have found yourself in an expensive court case.”

“Harrumph!” he grunted, clearly displeased at my news. “You found my son though?”

“Yes.”

He looked at me expectantly, presumably expecting young Scott to materialize in the room.

“Where is he then?”

“I am not going to tell you.”

He actually looked like he might well be in need of medical assistance from the way he was gasping at my answer. Still, I was sure that John would go and fetch a doctor for him if necessary. Fairly sure.

“What do you mean by that, sir?” the general demanded testily.

I picked up a large folder of papers and placed them on the table.

“As part of my inquiries, I naturally had to check some details about _you_ , General”, I said. “It seems that you have descended to the base level of verbal and sometimes even physical abuse of your wife, and have also pursued such foul behaviour against your youngest son.”

“I.... I never....”

“I have to tell you”, I interrupted, “that I have come into possession of your wife's diary in which she details the brutish way that you have behaved at home. You will not say or do anything against your wife, you will not make any further attempts to track down your youngest son, and you will cease your covert efforts to destroy your daughter's career as well. Should you persist in your current approach to any or all of these, I will have no choice but to reveal your base and utterly reprehensible behaviour to the newspapers. And to the society magazines.”

He was still gasping for breath, and giving us both a look of utter hatred. But he knew that he had been defeated, and stormed from the room slamming the door behind him.

I smiled at the sound from the bathroom; John was already running our bath.

Four months to go.

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Postscriptum: Sadly leopards do not change their spots, and the general did indeed make some effort to track down young Scott McCall – until he ran into four of Sweyn's boys on a pleasant weekend away in Shropshire and they 'dissuaded' him. His wife was, after some effort on my part, persuaded to sue for a divorce from him soon afterwards; he contested it but failed and was forced to sell his house and retire to the North somewhere. Mr. Derek Hale wrote to me soon after, saying how wonderfully happy he was and thanking me once more. 

I may have left out one small – well, medium-sized – detail in the story in that I spoke privately to Sergeant-Major Jones and he and his wife agreed to come to London with his camera and reproduce her famous 'Sir Come-Scribe' work for me. Except the figure draped stark naked over a pommel-horse was not a young soldier but a deeply blushing English country doctor. What with that, the Reigate photograph and Mrs. Callington's drawing, I could probably open an art exhibition devoted to my love.....

No way! He was all mine!

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_Notes:_   
_† The first four lines of the wonderfully named 'Poem L' in Alfred Edward Houseman's 'A Shropshire Lad' (1896)._

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	15. Case 357: Beauty And The Beast ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1904\. Sherlock rides to the rescue of yet another family member, this time up in his beloved John's native Northumberland. His new half-nephew, a rugby player, is concerned that some of his opponents have broken the unofficial rules of good sportsmanship - and he already has an idea as to why.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It was one of those odd coincidences that this case happened just after I had received a note from my friend Brendon, the former molly-man who had gone to the Far North of Scotland to oversee the estates of his half-nephew Edmund Duke of Cromartyshire. That had resulted in establishing a relationship between Brendon and Aedh Campbell, the twin brother of the now-duchess, and the two men had marked the twentieth anniversary of their first, rather stormy meeting (a year before I had met them in Scotland) by having two weeks in the Lake District at the Selkirk twins’ guest-house. I was sure that Brendon was just boasting when he mentioned some of the things that they had done there both on their own and with the boys and their guests Mr. Baker and Mr. Poncherello, but still, I decided that I had better make sure that they had not been just boasting by testing out as many as I could on John.

Brendon had once remarked of his own father that Duke Malcolm (Duke Edmund's grandfather and predecessor) could have not only provided a football team with his many bastard offspring but could have covered substitutes, the match officials, and have made a fair start on the crowd as well! I remembered that comment in particular because I had heard much the same said about my father’s business partner Sheridan, Lord Hawke; only later did I find out that this was true enough with me being numbered ‘in his team’! Some of the more observant (or at least the less insane!) of Watson’s readers remarked from time to time that it was a pity we never came across any of my other half-siblings and the like during our careers. The truth, as always in these things, was complicated.

Coming as I did from a somewhat irregular family – and that had better not be a cough from any medical personage in the vicinity as I have not fully worked through Brendon’s list yet! – I knew the value of a stable family life. Once I had found out who my real father was, I had asked my friend Miss St. Leger to track-down my assorted half-brothers, half-sisters and the rest, and to see that they were all right in their lives. I shall not divulge the total that she reached in the end, save to say that my late father did not as I had half-feared match my most famous house number in his determination to leave his mark on Mankind – _but he came damn close!_

There were about a dozen instances where my various unknowing relatives faced difficulties at one time or another, and in most of those I was able to covertly assist them without revealing their famous relative, much as they would have doubtless enjoyed the lustre of such a connection – someone _is_ coughing now, the bastard! – but in this one instance a more direct involvement was needed as one of my relations wrote requesting my help. And by one of those freakishly strange coincidences, he wrote from an address that was only yards away from Watson’s former home in Northumberland! So to England’s most northerly county we went to meet my unknowing half-nephew, Mr. Brencis Bassett-Evans.

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I had hoped that we might have been able to use this trip back to Bernicia to enable John to call in on his brother Stephen, but unfortunately the latter had gone to Amsterdam as part of a major case that he was working on and had taken his family with him. So it was just the two of us on the sea-front at Bamburgh, the town near Belford where we had arranged to meet my half-nephew who as well as working on the North Eastern Railway played for the rugby team here.

“I used to come here as a boy and just stare out to sea for hours on end”, John said as we walked along a sandy beach towards the impressive castle, looming large on the horizon. “Some days I would only get as far as Budle and paddle in the bay there but most times I made it here and imagined myself a brave knight back in ancient times, even if that was more medieval than Dark Ages England.”

“I could imagine you as a brave knight”, I smiled. “Especially 'Sir Tan-Sure!'.”

He blushed at me mention of the recent photograph that Mrs. Jones, wife of Sergeant Jones whom we had assisted in our last case, had made of him when she had come to London the previous week. That picture would look wonderful on my study wall in our cottage, for those hopefully few moments when the real thing was not to hand. I would have been tempted to go for some sex on the beach with him as well, but it was June and some early holidaymakers were already on the sands, enjoying the late spring sun.

I wondered idly how the sergeant was doing just now, as I had most generously directed Mrs. Jones to That Shop where she had made several purchases. Hopefully the fellow was able to stand up by now......

“This new relative of mine – as if I do not have more than enough of the things already! – says that the matter concerns him and some of his fellow members of the Bernician Royals Rugby Club”, I said. “He works on the railway so perhaps that may also be relevant. An odd Christian name, Brencis. It sounds foreign.”

John nodded.

“Russian”, he said.

“How do you know that?” I asked. 

“It is the middle name of Mr. Kuznetsov's son Boris”, he explained. “He was named after some friend of his father, and I asked about it when I tended to him one time. The name Bassett-Evans is unfamiliar which suggests that he is likely a newcomer to Belford; possibly it is an Anglicized version of a foreign name. I likely know the other men whose names he mentions though; the Forthrights have lived in Bamburgh since forever and if they are in the rugby team then they must be nephews or possibly even great-nephews of old Jebediah Forthright. He was one of those miserable old fellows who seemed to actually enjoy being miserable; I can only hope that his kin are very different.”

“My half-nephew has certainly returned to England after some wordly travels”, I said. “You are right; his father was Lord Sheridan Hawke's son Sergei who was the result of a liaison of his with the wife of a Russian visitor to this country. Young Sergei moved to Australia where he married a local lady and had Brencis. I understand that his wife died not long after the birth and he remarried; possibly this new half-nephew of mine and his new stepmother did not get on, which was why he moved first to Canada where he went to school and later to England.”

"All the way around the world from where he was conceived, and he ends up just steps away from my old house", John smiled. "It really is becoming a very small world."

"Not to matter", I said. "Later you will be getting a very big something to make up for that!"

And there went the fast breathing again. I was so bad to him - _or very soon would be!_

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That the three 'gentlemen' were rugby players was more than a little obvious when we met them outside a tavern on the seafront. The brothers William and James Forthright and my half-nephew Mr. Brencis Bassett-Evans were all huge men in their mid-twenties, not particularly tall (they were above average height but shorter than both John and I), and would surely have made good players for their bulk alone. In particular my half-nephew had the largest arms that I had ever seen on a fellow man; I wondered how he found a kit to contain them. He was absolutely nothing like me, which was perhaps a good thing. 

Having said how different he was, it took me only a fraction of a second to realize that Mr. Bassett-Evans was indeed blood. Physically he could hardly have been more different from the slender and handsome elegance of my late and ill-starred half-brother Lord Tobias, yet this 'ugly duckling' shone with the sort of inner integrity which, even in this cynical day and age, was pure righteousness. It perhaps stood out more because his two friends were both good-looking in the conventional sense of the word, yet did not 'shine' like he did.

The men all greeted John with great enthusiasm; he had as I know he has said played rugby for his village team before they had merged with the team here some years back, and had once scored a try in an important match against their local rivals down in Alnwick. 

“You say your friend here can solve most things, sir”, Mr. Bassett-Evans said, looking at me a shade uncertainly (I had the unfortunate thought that if he ever found out about the link between us and was annoyed about it, he could likely have buried my body without breaking a sweat). “Hope so. Don't think the team can go on much longer the way things are.”

“Please tell us what the problem is first”, I said.

The three men exchanged looks. They were all clearly wary in front of a stranger.

“My friend is always very discreet about any case he undertakes”, John said reassuringly. “And we never allow anything to be published that would affect innocent people.”

That assurance seemed to relax them all somewhat. Mr. James Forthright spoke first.

“Doctor Watson here will understand this, I'm sure”, he said. “We had a good season last year, 'specially after Ned Jukes moved to the area. He lived up in Cornhill right on the Border and like Bren, he works on the old North Eastern. He's our scrum-half and a real fast runner. Bren's the hooker and we're props.”

I wondered how someone might play unpaid for a rugby team based so far away. As well as what on earth these terms meant. I looked hopefully at John.

“The scrum-half is the fellow who pretty much controls the backs or the defensive half of the team”, he explained. “Oftentimes the captain and nearly always a good kicker. The hooker is the middle man of the front row of the scrum and usually controls that; the props are the men either side of him.”

“We'd likely have won the title if Ned had moved here at the start rather than halfway through the season”, Mr. James Forthright continued, inadvertently answering one of my questions. “We came second though, our best in a while. When we started this season everything was fine – until that match last week against Alnwick.”

I detected the slightest of reactions from my half-nephew at that and made a mental note to talk with him about it later. Evidently whatever the matter at hand was, it had clearly started _before_ the Alnwick match. From something that only he had noted. And from something that he had not shared with his friends. Curious.

“What happened?” I asked.

“They're our local rivals, sir”, Mr. William Forthright said, “so you'd expect a bit of argy-bargy and all. But they went after Ned and roughed him up good and proper. He had to be taken off at half-time.”

I wondered at that. Surely that was just the way of rugby?

“I see it”, John said. “You mean more than they should have done.”

All three men nodded. I was beginning to know how John said he sometimes felt, all at sea. He turned to me.

“Because of the physical nature of the sport and the risk that it might devolve into just a brawl, there are unwritten rules about what players can and cannot do to each other”, he explained. “For the Alnwick players to have broken those rules, something serious had to have happened.”

“We don't know what, though”, Mr. Bassett-Evans said, frowning. “They wouldn't shake hands with us afterwards, or even talk to us. Our coach went to their dressing-room to ask what the hell had been going on but they threw him out.”

He did not hesitate in his delivery, yet again there was something in his tone which suggested that he knew rather more than he was saying. I began to have a bad feeling that I knew what was behind recent events here, which if I was right would mean that finding a resolution would not be easy.

“When is your next match?” I asked, having a horrible feeling that I knew what would form part of the answer.

“Next week against Berwick”, Mr. James Forthright said. “Coach said he won't pick Ned after what happened.”

I sighed to myself. It was not always pleasant being right.

“I shall definitely make some inquiries”, I covered. “Are you holding any training sessions before the match, may I ask?”

“Thursday, sir”, Mr. Bassett-Evans said. “You any idea what's behind all this?”

“I have several”, I said, perhaps stretching the truth just a little. “But I will get back to you before your session on Thursday with what I have by then, I promise. I wonder if you, sir, could show the doctor and I around your pitch? Just to get a flavour of the case, you understand.”

“Of course sir”, my half-nephew said affably.

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The rugby-field was well-situated, with magnificent views up the coast to the huge castle on its rocky perch. John clearly knew that I had pulled the hooker aside for a reason, but kept silent. We were in the middle of the field before I spoke.

“There is something else about this case, sir”, I said. “And very curiously, something that you did not feel comfortable speaking about in front of your good friends back there, which means that it is something serious. Like the doctor I need _all_ the information pertinent to a case, so what is it?”

The huge fellow blushed fiercely.

“You see, sir”, he said awkwardly, “Bill and Jay are both married.”

I stared at him. That was it?

“We know that”, John said, equally perplexed. “So?”

He somehow contrived to look even more awkward. I wondered if he was going to hold out on me so I gave him what John called my 'bacon look'. He caved at once.

“It was after the match against Tynedale, the one before Alnwick”, he said sadly. “I'd had my suspicions – Ned and I had crossed paths in our work before the Company reassigned him to Belford and he moved into the end cottage the row where I live – but when the three of us were in the showers that day I caught him looking at Bill and Jay.”

And there it was. I thought for a moment. I could see two ways forward here, and both were problematical.

“You and Mr. Jukes both work for the North Eastern Railway?” I asked, playing for time. He nodded.

"His grandfather is from just north of Newcastle", he said. "Can't remember the name of the place, except it started with a 'B'. He got him a post on the railway on the loop line through Wooler and Coldstream but had been looking to get him somewhere on the main line as it runs a few miles from his grandfather's place. The old fellow isn’t in the best of health and Ned wants to keep an eye on him. Luckily his station-master put in a good word for him and he moved in at Belford.”

That too seemed odd. If this fellow's grandfather lived in the south of the county then why had he secured a place still relatively far away? But then I supposed that the service on a rural loop line was likely much inferior to that of the main line, particularly if his grandfather happened to live right on it.

"What about his parents?" I asked.

For some reason that made our client blush.

"His mother's dead", he said, "and his father was a footman at the Duke of Northumberland's place down in Alnwick.”

I stared at him. There was clearly more to that.

“I, er..... well, he was maybe more than just a footman”, he admitted, scratching his stubbled beard. “Lady Eleanor, the duke's sister, she comes to matches sometimes which seems odd for a nob. I know the ground is on his land, but even so."

Maybe not, I thought. Incredibly this case would need even more careful handling than I had first thought.

“You are thinking that he might 'go after' a married man?” I asked. I knew that that sort of thing did happen; Campbell and Sweyn had each had to sack one of their 'boys' because of such behaviour, which was a clear breach of the contracts all men signed when they joined up, but to be fair that had been just two times in nearly four decades which when one considered the size of their 'empire' was impressive indeed. Many so-called respectable businesses would not come close to such a record.

The behemoth blushed again.

“The lads call the two of us Beauty and the Beast”, he admitted ruefully. “Ned.... he's class even though he roughs it with the rest of us. I can see why me might go for Bill or Jay; they're the only ones in the team anything like as good-looking as he is. Thing is I don't think he's the sort – but I did think that if I saw it then perhaps someone else did.”

“Who?” John asked.

“I think it might have been Willy – Mr. Nye – our scrum-half before Ned came along”, he said reluctantly. “He’s friends with the Alnwick coach and he was around the changing-rooms at the time. Can’t be sure but I know he resented having to move position even though Ned’s miles better. Willy quit the team a few weeks back but is still around doing odd jobs.”

 _And now his replacement is off the team_ , I thought. _How very convenient._

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I decided that I needed to speak with the unseen Mr. Jukes and, given the delicacy of the matter, it might for once be better if I did so alone. Fortunately John was perfectly understanding when I explained that to him the following morning.

The prolonged blow-job I gave him may or may not have been a factor in that perfect understanding. Just possibly. He was certainly in no fit state to manage the stairs down to breakfast – I had to take him a plate up – let alone leaving our inn! At least I very generously helped him by removing all the bacon from that plate, otherwise he would never have managed it.

Mr. Edward Jukes was something of a surprise, even given what I had been told about him by my half-nephew. He was blond and strikingly handsome, slender of build but with a commanding presence that stood out; his powerfully muscled thighs were almost the size of those of our three clients. I thought instinctively of a picture John had once shown me of the famous Hotspur who, if this fellow was indeed Lady Eleanor Percy's offspring, was therefore an ancestor of this fellow. I liked the direct way in which he held my gaze; I had in my time had far too many people who could not look me in the eye whilst spouting what were at best half-truths. I could also see that he had made some effort to cover up his recent assault, which I supposed was understandable.

“I have made some inquiries already into your recent 'bruising' match”, I told him, not failing to note that he looked a little alarmed at that, “and am curious about one thing. Mr. Bassett-Evans said that he caught you looking at the Forthright brothers the other week. Was that true?”

He blushed fiercely. 

“No, sir”, he said firmly.

A shade too firmly. I had been right again, not that there had been anything unusual about that of course. It was lucky that I was such a supremely modest fellow (as I was always telling Watson) or such a thing may well have gone to my head.

“I see”, I said. “Mr. Bassett-Evans was only half-right in his assessment, was he not?”

The fellow somehow contrived to go even redder.

“It's so embarrassing!” he managed.

"It was not your grandfather who got you that job on the railway, was it?" I pressed. "It was your mother, Lady Eleanor."

"Please sir, you can't tell anyone!" he said desperately. "The team accept me for one of their own; they'd drop me like a stone if they thought I was a nob!"

Unfair as that was, he was probably right.

"Tell me how you came here", I said soothingly.

“You're right about my mother, sir”, he said, “though my grandfather does live just north of Newcastle. His son whose name I bear was Lady Eleanor's footman and they..... you know. I was lucky that there are so few family members around just now; the old duke decided to keep me by 'as a spare'. Not that he's have dared cross my mother!”

“I got a job working around the estate and that was how I met Bren. It was sheer chance; I was supposed to get a train back to Alnwick but it was cancelled so I ended up waiting on the station platform at Tweedmouth. There was some sort of problem with the bridge, I remember, so there were several trains and ours was not due out for a while, so I decided to stretch my legs. I saw him – and that was that!”

From the look on his face, that had indeed been that. Sometimes Cupid's arrow hits the bull's-eye.

“I asked Mother if she could get me a job on the railway”, he went on, blushing fiercely at his admission. “She got me in at Coldstream where I worked for a couple of years until she was able to get me on the main line and into Bren's row of cottages. He's... you've met him, sirs. He's sure no-one could ever want someone like him. Please, say you won't tell him!”

“Would you rather he thinks that you are someone who would break up a gentleman's marriage just so that you might sleep with him?” I asked dryly.

He winced. He saw my point. This really was another Judgement of Paris.

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Two days later the training session of the Bernician Royals Rugby Team was dominated by developments off the field rather than on it. Their coach had resigned after a scandal involving his having been caught seeing a mistress on his visits down to Newcastle, something that had been communicated to his wife and over which she had not been best pleased. He was fortunate that she had taken her scissors only to his wardrobe!

That was not the sport's only loss; the Alnwick team had also lost their coach after some thugs had beaten him up and he had decided to quit the game as a result. John had looked at me suspiciously (and rightly so) when I had told him, but as our three new friends were just coming into the room which they comprehensively filled, he could not remark on the subject.

“What I have to tell you is in some ways difficult”, I said, “and given the delicate nature of the matter at hand I would ask that you not mention what passes in this room once you leave.”

“You're not going to tell us Ned's an escaped murderer, are you Mr. Holmes?” Mr. James Forthright said with a smile.

“No”, I said. “He just likes one of you.”

Both the Forthrights looked uneasily at each other. 

“Jay or me?” Mr. William Forthright asked at last.

“Neither of you.”

None of them were geniuses but they worked through that one quickly enough. The brothers looked in astonishment at my half-nephew, who looked equally dumbfounded.

 _”Me?”_ he exclaimed in a suddenly high voice.

“Beauty is, they say, in the eye of the beholder”, I said equably. “I have seen many relationships between men in my time, some of which would raise more than an eyebrow to outsiders. Yet what matters is not age or beauty, or for that matter a surfeit or absence of years and/or looks. What matters is love.”

They were clearly still struggling with this. Particularly poor Mr. Bassett-Evans, who even more than Mr. Jukes looked like he might need John's professional services quite soon.

“Still seems a bit rum”, Mr. William Forthright said. “Wait a bit – is this why Coach left?”

“That is one of the less pleasant parts of a difficult case”, I sighed. “The coach of your rivals learned of your friend's preferences; I am afraid that Mr. Jukes’s predecessor as scrum-half discovered the truth and told the fellow about it, knowing him to be exceptionally narrow-minded. That was why his team broke your sport's code of honour and targeted your team-mate. When your own coach went to find out why, I am afraid that he lied to you when he said that he was thrown out of their dressing-room. His fellow coach related what he knew – greatly embellished, of course – so your coach set about ridding the team of Mr. Jukes.”

“The rat!” Mr. Bassett-Evans said forcibly. “Dumping our Ned!”

His two friends snickered at each other, especially when he realized how what he had just said might be misinterpreted. He looked mortified!

“I do not know how your fellow team-mates might take this news”, I said, suppressing a smile at his discomfort, “which is why I would counsel secrecy for the moment. Your new coach, the previous fellow's deputy, is much more open-minded but I will leave you my card if there are any difficulties. I have also had a message sent to your Mr. William Nye advising him not to come to the ground any more.”

That was maybe stretching the truth slightly. I had had Miss St. Leger find me four very large Northumbrian men who had visited Bamburgh and ‘strongly advised’ Mr. Nye to leave the area. While he still had the use of his legs!

“We're the biggest chaps in the team!” Mr. Bassett-Evans said firmly. “We'll see Ned right!

His bastard team-mates promptly fell over each other with laughter. He glared at them.

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Mr. Jukes was very thankful for all that I had done for him, and in gratitude he kindly loaned me a team kit with John's old number in it. I was therefore able to spend the whole journey back to London getting him in and out of it, such that we had to spend a night in the Station Hotel at Euston because neither of us was in a fit state to take a cab. What a wonderful sport rugby is!

By arranging for my half-nephew’s neighbour in his cottage to obtain a job elsewhere that he wanted, I also enabled Mr. Jukes to move in so he was just a connecting door away from his ‘Jumbo’. Who, he wrote, was Jumbo-sized in every department! It seemed that I had acquired another family member prone to oversharing!

Three months to go.

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	16. Interlude: Scrum Down!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1904\. A man reaches a key turning-point in his life – in tight shorts!

_[Narration by Mr. Brencis Bassett-Evans, Esquire]_

The Good Lord may have short-changed me with brains almost as much as he'd done with the looks, but when I'd seen Ned eyeing up the three of us I'd realized that a man who liked other men was looking at two happily married (and, I admit, good-looking) young men. So I'd put two and two together.

And I'd made five! I'd wondered about Ned being too moral to go after a married man, and he hadn't. It'd been me he'd been looking at! Me for Christ's sake, winner of Ugliest Mug of Northumberland five years running, and Ned all but a model with his looks! With my face I'd long been resigned that no women would ever want me – rugby hadn't exactly helped matters, much as I loved it – but it seemed I'd forgotten the men. 

So I'd arranged for Ned to come round and 'talk' to me. I'd a feeling that this would be one of the most difficult conversations of my young life, so I'd decided to help things along a bit by opening the door to him wearing my kit. 

Just minus my top. 

Ye Gods, I had to have been blind not to have seen it. His eyes visibly widened and he actually moved slightly towards me before managing to check himself. Fellow needed his eyes looking at, but whatever.

“Had to get the top done a second time”, I said airily. “You know the sort of marks we get on the pitch. Come on in.”

He followed me through to the main room in silence. We sat down opposite each other. His gaze had dropped some way below what was anywhere near appropriate.

I was wearing the tight shorts as well. His breathing was quite a bit faster.

“You want to have sex with me!” I challenged.

“I do not!” he shot back.

That surprised me. I knew nothing about what went on between men in bed – for one thing this was the bog end of Northumberland, and for another as I said, I just didn't consider it a possibility as far as I was concerned – but he sounded like he was being honest.

“What _do_ you want, then?” I asked curiously.

“I want to make love to you”, he said simply. “I want to go to bed every night with the most beautiful man that God ever created, wake up with that man beside me every morning, and go through the day between knowing that he loves me maybe half as much as I love him.”

Ye Gods, how did he come out with things like that? I was still recovering when he smiled, stood up and came over to sit on the floor next to me, gently leaning against my leg. And dammit if that didn't have The Brennster waking up to say hullo, tight shorts or no tight shorts!

“Love?” I managed at last. I sounded like I was on helium!

“I might not say no to sex if it’s on offer, though”, he smiled, running his hand up and down my leg and making me shudder as he neared the top. “But like you, my beautiful Jumbo, that comes later. Besides, there's the question of whether or not it would fit.”

“I may be 'Jumbo' but I'm not that big”, I protested (I was really).

He grinned lasciviously at me. I looked at him in confusion for some time before I got it. He was talking about.... me getting it!

Oh! _Oh!_

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Later that night we.... you know. I was sure from they way they looked at me in our next match that Bill and Jay knew what was going down (me every damn night and every damn morning!), but all they did was smirk. Though that was bad enough, damn them!

Even better, Mr. Holmes who'd helped me out arranged for old Geoff next door to get that job he'd wanted down in Yorkshire, and Ned moved in there. He was now only a connecting door away, which was great. Even if I was in a bit of a state when we walked to work every morning – my man really knew how to wake someone up of a morning!

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	17. Case 358: Finding Galahad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1904\. People change over time – but when Sherlock and John investigate the fears of a good friend, they find that some people can change an awful lot! And John is hideously embarrassed by a huge weapon.  
> No, I meant a broadsword! Honestly, some people and their filthy minds!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as a case arising out of letters from a fishmonger.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

This was one of those adventures which, strictly speaking, did not really constitute a case. Yet the outcome was rather amusing and indeed it led to that rare thing, Sherlock telling a lie. And in the end showing once more just how much he truly loved me. 

_I was so damn lucky!_

My readers may remember a few years back the case of Sergeant Josiah Templar, so foully forced out of the Lancashire Constabulary and whom Sherlock had subsequently helped and been helped by (The Adventure Of Josiah's Jumbo). I knew that he had kept a weather eye on that excuse for a police force thereafter, and I was sure although he never said anything that his recent communications with our old police friends LeStrade and Inspector Macdonald in neighbouring Cumberland had been behind the dreadful 'Hornby Castle Affair', which had erupted in the newspapers a few months back. Fraud and corruption were far from the worst things to be revealed, and the upper ranks of both the Lancashire and Cumberland & Westmorland Constabularies had been decimated.

Ironically this had led to a double bonus for both the Great Cake-Detectives, who always 'just happened' to call in on Mrs. Rockland's baking-days. The scandal broke only days after LeStrade's son Galleron had made sergeant here in the capital and resulted in more vacancies when a London inspector moved north to fill one of the gaps up there, which at sergeant level had been filled by Gregson's son Tobias (the two young men were sort of related as Galleron's sister Iseult was married to Tobias's brother Tristram, but sadly it was back to the bad old days as both men – who, even more weirdly, both liked cake and shared their respective fathers' remarkable tendency to only arrive at Baker Street on baking days! – loathed each other with a passion. Perhaps they would end up as another pair of Cuddle Bunnies and damnation if I am not getting a disapproving look from 'someone'!

The other change effected indirectly by the scandal was that LeStrade's nephew our friend Valiant was elevated to chief-inspector in his native Westmorland. Although he still technically had three years to serve before he would normally have been considered, the authorities clearly felt that some stability was needed from someone known in the area, and that he was the right man to effect it. I was confident that they had (for once) made a most excellent choice.

Because of what I presume were police procedures the new Chief-Inspector LeStrade had to attend a short course in London before he could fully take up his position although he was entitled to call himself by his new title straight-away. It was during this time in early August that he paid us a visit, just after the birth of his thirteenth – _thirteenth, the dog!_ – child, a son Urre. It was also barely a month until our planned departure date for the cottage on the Downs so I was understandably nervous that the prize of all that se.... serious happiness might still be snatched away from me at the last. Nevertheless I was delighted to see our old friend and to inquire after our godsons, his two eldest boys Tristram and Torre, now both sixteen.

“I feel a bit odd having to ask you this”, he said, folding his muscular bulk into the famous fireside chair. “I could make inquiries of my own but as you know the service frowns on such things. It may be something or nothing.”

“Tell us about it”, Sherlock urged.

“It is my cousin Gareth”, he said. “As you know he lives with Mercy on the north coast of Devonshire; a wild area so they say. He could not pick up a pen if his life depended on it but Mercy writes to both me and Uncle Gawain regular as clockwork. She had two sons and two daughters, and it is their eldest son that is the issue here, by name of Galahad.”

He stopped noticing our surprised expressions.

“We have met the young gentlemen”, Sherlock said. “He approached us some eight years ago over the matter at Yoxley Old Place'.”

I too remembered the boy, similar in appearance to the man before us but a fraction of his build, all knees and elbows as only a teenage boy can be. And of course the case, one of our more unusual ones (and there was plenty of competition for that title) after which Sherlock and I.....

Not the time, so not the time! And someone could stop smirking like that, damn him!

“That is good”, our visitor smiled, mercifully unaware of my inner turmoil. “I was going to call on the young fellow while I was down here but I wondered if you gentlemen would be so good as to check something out for me first?”

“Has he developed criminal tendencies?” I asked, worried.

“I do not think so”, the chief-inspector said. “You see, it is like this. He obtained a job at Fortnum & Mason's, the famous department store, and although I have no idea what he does there I do know that it is not full-time. Last year Gareth fell ill and needed expensive hospital treatment. The family rallied round of course, but Mercy was a bit surprised when Galahad insisted on paying his share. It seemed a lot for someone who only worked part-time in a shop and she wondered.... well.... she wondered where he was getting the money.”

I winced. I could see all too well what Mrs. Mercy LeStrade had perhaps naturally assumed. Sherlock asked the obvious question.

“What is he like now, this young Galahad?” he asked. “People change in eight years.”

_(I would soon have cause to remember that particular statement)._

“I only met him the one time myself”, our guest admitted, “and that would have been not long after you yourselves. He was about sixteen then; so thin that he would have disappeared if he had turned sideways! I would as I said have made some inquiries myself but my new boss Superintendent Worton – he is all right as bosses go but like so many he has that thing about officers doing work of a private nature, and I do not want to get off on the wrong foot with him having just been promoted ahead of my time. Even if the worst is true, there would still have been no crime here.”

“We would be delighted to investigate this matter for you”, Sherlock said. “We have your addresses here and in Westmorland and shall telegraph you any news. Whatever that news may be.”

I could only hope that the news would be good. But I doubted it.

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“A molly-house?” I asked once our friend had left. 

“It seems the obvious way for a young man to make lots of money in London”, Sherlock said ruefully. “But as our American acquaintance Detective Hutchinson showed, there are others. We shall see. We can call on our good friend Lowen – he would surely know if the young man, as he is now, had joined 'the business' – and then repair to the great department store.”

I frowned. That dratted leering Cornish ex-fisherman again. It was a damn good thing that I was not the jealous sort and that had better damn well not be another smirk!

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We spent only a short time at Mr. Laurence Trevelyan's house, although it seemed a lot longer as far as I was concerned. The fellow promised that he would make inquiries and would have a definite answer by the end of the day (although I was sure that I caught him leering at Sherlock's backside again, which was off limits to everyone except me!). And 'someone' definitely smirked when I accidentally coughed, damn him!

I was surprised however to find just who the pest was sharing his house with, namely the Italian Palazzi brothers who worked alongside him at the molly-houses. Salerio was I knew married, yet he was very obviously living there full-time. 

“It is good to see that you are not still jealous of our Cornish friend”, Sherlock smiled once we had left. 

“He does not seem to have aged enough considering he is barely a few years younger than us”, I groused. “I know damn well what he wants when I see that look on his face.”

“Yes”, he said. “Hot, sweaty sex. Fortunately he has Solario and Salerio for that.”

I stopped and stared at him in shock.

“But Salerio is married”, I objected. “And he never said that he was with anyone!” 

“Salerio's wife divorced him some years back and he took up with Lowen once the divorce was finalized”, he said airily. “As you know I helped Solario come over to join his brother, and they formed a very happy _ménage a trois_. Did I not mention that?”

I spluttered indignantly.

“And that fellow still leers at you when he has _two_ men hung like bloody horses?” I demanded, not at all testily.

“Only because we both know that it provokes you”, he grinned. “And you are an even better lover when you are in one of those jealous rages. But you can punish me for it when we get back to Baker Street!”

And now I had to go into one of the top department stores in London with a full-on erection! He was definitely going to pay for that later.

_If I did not die of anticipation in the meantime!_

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Although the prices in this store were eye-wateringly high (and someone's constant touches on the way there were also making my eyes water!) I did on occasion grace its palatine floors as it was one of the few places that I could be sure to obtain certain of the very rare flavours of barley-sugars that my friend loved. Sherlock could easily have bought them himself but he knew that I enjoyed treating him to them and he always rewarded me for my consideration....

I had to repair to the gentlemen's lavatory for a Moment.

The general manager, a tall blond fellow in his forties who was clearly in some sort of competition to see how much hair gel one person could apply to their dome, was a Mr. Andrew Dinmore. He looked understandably nervous at our arrival to his store, presumably not just because the oil-slick on his pate might be about to go up in flames under the strong lights.

“I cannot of course divulge any details about the Very Important Case that I am undertaking”, Sherlock said loftily. “However a description of a person who was at the scene of a crime matches some seven people, and your employee Mr. Galahad LeStrade is one of them. Naturally as he is an employee of this noble establishment I wished to eliminate him from my enquiries as soon as possible, so all I need are his regular hours of employment and whether those have varied at all of late.”

The manager looked relieved at that.

“Mr. LeStrade works Monday to Saturday, from twelve until six”, he said. “He is always very punctual and has no problem with coming in early or staying behind if asked. We are most pleased with him; indeed we have decided that when the next full-time position comes up we shall offer it to him first.”

“That definitely rules him out, then”, Sherlock said, looking relieved. “This incident took place at a quarter to four on a Thursday afternoon; seemingly I must focus my attentions on the other people involved. You say that you are happy with the fellow's work?”

“Most definitely”, the manager said. “He works in the gentlemen's accessories department close by the front door. That is useful as even here we occasionally get 'difficult' customers. He has assisted them to leave on more than one occasion.”

I was surprised at that, as I could not have imagined the fellow we had met being able to manhandle anything more than a paper tissue. But then perhaps his gawky height counteracted his lack of substance.

“He sounds a most positive addition to your staff”, Sherlock smiled. “Thank you for taking the time to see us today, sir.”

We returned home and, after I had made manifest my annoyance at my friend (all right, and had a good long rest to recover from same) we had a quiet evening in as Sherlock wished to wait for our leering friend's information before going any further with the case. Mr. Trevelyan duly came through and a telegram that arrived just after six assured us that whatever he was up to Mr. Galahad LeStrade was not selling his body for profit.

It was odd that the leering pest had worded his message in that particular way, because he was in fact quite wrong. So there!

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The following day Sherlock decided to pay a call on Mr. Galahad LeStrade whose house was in Southwark just across the river. Number Sixteen Nightingale Lane was a reasonable quality property for the area and my friend knocked at the door. It was opened by a young fellow of whom I quickly noticed three things. First, he was about twenty years of age, with curly chestnut locks framing a boyish face. Second (because some blue-eyed bastard insisted that I mention this trifling and utterly insignificant little detail) he was I suppose arguably attractive in a certain light, and third, he was wearing only a pair of impossibly tight underpants that.... well, they did not so much cover up as proclaim to the world what lay beneath! 

“My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, Sherlock smiled, “and this is my friend, Doctor John Watson. We are here about Mr. LeStrade.”

Make that four things. The fellow's face lit up and he promptly pulled Sherlock into an embrace!

“Mr. Holmes!”

I may have coughed pointedly – several times! – before this Adon.... this only moderately good-looking personage finally let go of someone who had not exactly tried to get away from him, and smiled beatifically at us both.

“Very sorry”, he said looking a little abashed. “But my dear mama has told me so much about you, and it is wonderful to meet you at last!”

“Your mother?” I asked curiously.

“My mother is Mrs. West, formerly Miss Vittoria Vincenzo”, he explained, “whom you assisted when she worked for the circus as a belle.”

Oh yes, one of our Montague Street Cases. Back in – gulp! – 1876! Nearly three decades ago!

“My name is Ettore”, the young man continued. “Please to come in”

He led us inside. The building had evidently been converted into lodgings like our own 221B; I saw a gentleman in pyjamas and a dressing-gown come out of a kitchen at the far end of the corridor too half-asleep to even notice us, and slouch into what was presumably his room. Mr. West led us through a door on the left into what was very obviously a gentleman's room and bade us sit down.

“Is Gad in any trouble?” he asked.

“Not that I am aware of”, Sherlock said, looking round the room curiously. “I take it that you are his….. 'friend'?”

_Ah._

The Ado..... Mr. West looked curiously at Sherlock.

“Have you spoken to him?” he asked.

“I have only met him the one time, many years ago”, Sherlock said, “although coming to this area today I fully expect that situation to be remedied very soon. To answer your other question, although this is very obviously your room there are signs that another gentleman is a frequent visitor. Also that the couch is a favoured place of you both.”

“How can you know that?” the young man asked.

“The excellent condition of your own teeth states that you do not smoke a pipe”, Sherlock said, “but someone has knocked out old tobacco dregs into a fire and one or two did not quite make it. I take it that your 'friend' is in the habit of collapsing onto the couch in an untidy heap to the detriment of the poor cushion, and the indentations thereon suggest that he does not always rest there unaccompanied. The markings are.... familiar.”

I blushed for some reason. So I sometimes graciously allowed Sherlock to hold me in a manly embrace on our own couch because he liked that sort of thing. And?

_And he could stop with the knowing looks and all!_

“The bookcase shows two distinct choices of literature in both business and pleasure reading”, Sherlock said, smiling in a way that was just annoying. “Also the table by the window has faint sun-marks on it which indicates that someone frequently spreads paperwork all over the place, something that certain writers do far too often these days.”

I was perhaps a little slow but I harrumphed indignantly. Mr. West smiled.

“Gad has always wanted to become a doctor”, he said. “In between, um, work, he studies in here of an evening. His own room at the back is poorly lit, you see.”

I wondered at the hesitation. Why should he be ashamed of his 'friend' working at such an illustrious department store?

“I dare say that the company here is much more pleasant”, Sherlock smiled. “I assume that Mr. LeStrade is very independent-minded and most definitely the sort of person who wishes to achieve what he does on his own merits?”

“You really do know him”, Mr. West said.

“Deduction”, Sherlock said crisply. “He knew of us and our connection to his grandfather, so he would have known that the doctor in particular could have helped him achieve his aims more easily. Yet he chose not to take up that option. I take it that he is.... around the back?”

I wondered what he meant by that. Our host looked beseechingly at him.

“We both work there”, he said confusing me still further. “You will not tell his mother? The poor lady would be mortified!”

“I am sure that I can cobble together some sort of explanation as to her son's 'great wealth'”, Sherlock smiled. “It would not be the first time that I have spared a mother's blushes at a son's unusual career choice; indeed the gentleman whom I helped in that case was helpful to me in more than one subsequent investigation. We shall allow ourselves the pleasure of seeing the man himself and then this 'case' will be closed.” 

He bowed to the handsome young gentleman and led the way out, and I knew without even asking that he would not tell me what he had meant by that last remark. I did not pout at that fact.

“I still love it when you pout!” he whispered as we walked to the end of the quiet street, to presumably find a cab. 

Damnation!

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Sherlock did not to my surprise hail a cab but instead led the way first into Boundary Road and then House-Martin Lane, the road which ran parallel to and behind Nightingale Lane. This too was mostly residential properties but halfway along there was a new building which was rather too modern for my tastes, all metal and glass. Sherlock led the way into 'The Michelangelo Art Studio' (really?) and I followed.

The receptionist at the front desk was according to her name-plate a “Miss Q. Hanrahan”, and apparently her being not yet thirty years of age did not stop her simpering at my man. I did not growl at her, and a certain someone's smugness at my pointed cough was not appreciated either. As we thankfully left the hussy behind I remembered something that my friend had said back at the house.

“That was what you meant when you said that the two gentlemen worked 'around the back'?” I asked. “They work here and that gives LeStrade's grandson the extra money.”

“That is sort of true”, Sherlock smiled. “I just need to see the manager of this place and explain why he has two strange men wandering around it.”

He disappeared into a small office and I allowed myself a sigh. I supposed that this place was not so bad on the inside all things considered. It seemed to have windows everywhere, although I had noted that the ones at the front had been covered with that special one-way glass. I wondered what sort of art they had that it needed to be hidden from the passing general public. Perhaps it was all just cover for a high-class molly-house after all?

“It is not.”

I let out a manly expression of surprise as my blue-eyed genius somehow managed to materialize right next to me, and glared at him.

“I am making you pay for that later!” I grumbled. He grinned.

“I do hope so!” 

Damnation!

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“The room that we want is through there”, Sherlock said gesturing to a door to our left, “but Mr. Peterson suggested that we might wish to see his students' latest works.”

I shuddered. Modern art! Sherlock led me through the door to the right and I looked around in surprise.

“Counties?” I said. He nodded.

“The manager said that each student was allotted one of the counties in or near London and had to produce a piece of art representing it”, he said. “I thought that we might see what they made of our soon to be home, East Sussex. Ah, here it..... oh.”

He stopped and I could well see why. Rather than some pastoral village or seaside resort, the artist had gone for what looked very like a view across Chuffingden from our cottage – except that the skies above the village were blood red and dark, giving the painting an ominous air. Only a single beam of light shone through to land on a strangely empty patch of land directly in front of the painter, which looked quite like the area around our front gate. The picture disturbed us both, let alone the strange sub-title 'The Eve Of The War', and we left quickly. 

Sherlock led the way across the corridor and into a large well-lit room where about a dozen people were gathered round a dais which had a large and very solid pole stretching all the way up to the ceiling. They were clearly setting up to draw something or possibly someone as there was some sort of post for someone to lean on, and I watched with interest. None of the gentlemen however looked anything like what I expected Mr. Galahad LeStrade to now look like after eight years.

“He is not here yet”, I said.

“Yes he is”, Sherlock grinned.

I was about to reply when the model walked around from behind a screen that I had not even noticed and walked up onto the platform. He must have been at least six foot four, was very muscular and had fair, almost white skin. He was wearing a dressing-gown and carrying a huge broadsword that was almost as tall as he himself was, which he rested against the pole when he reached the dais I was about to ask Sherlock the obvious question when the fellow effortlessly shed the robe. Instinctively I looked down.

And down.

And down.

The broadsword that he was taking up again was not his only mighty weapon!

“It looks like the United States Constitution is incorrect”, Sherlock muttered. “All men are _not_ created equal.”

I was still staring at.... that. Sherlock seemed totally unruffled.

“Not envious at all, are you, John?” he grinned.

I was not. Not the least bit. No way.

Poor Mr. West!

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The gentleman who met us some little time later looked almost ordinary considering how we had first seen him (although I did notice the looser than normal trousers). Sherlock re-introduced us both and I saw the look of horror cross his face.

“Be not afraid”, Sherlock assured him. “Your mother was merely concerned that you were making your contribution to your father's hospital bills by selling your body in, ahem, rather less desirable ways.”

“I suppose that that is understandable”, the giant (in both senses!) said. “Please sir, you cannot tell her!”

For some reason I was reminded of a small child pleading with an adult. I smiled at the image.

“I have already planned for that”, Sherlock re-assured him. “I will lay a story that having become aware of your existence and that you were the grandson of my friend, I covertly arranged for you to obtain free lodgings at a house which had been bequeathed to an acquaintance of mine only on condition that they rent and maintain it free for twenty-one years before being allowed to sell it. Knowing that you needed extra money I advanced your name for one of the vacancies, which is why you were able to support your father.”

The (second) Adonis sighed in relief.

“Thank you, sir”, he said. “It is..... well, I think my mother might be all right with this but my father... he would not know what to make of it, and I am sure that people back home would tease him about it if they found out!”

“I shall be sure to suggest to your mother that if they should ever both come to visit you in the capital, it would be politic to call first”, Sherlock said smoothly. “May I ask a rather direct question?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Do you actually enjoy being a model?”

The young fellow reddened. I was reminded of his prodigious Westmorland cousin who also blushed very easily.

“It it easy money and lots of it just for standing there in some daft get-up”, he said. “Some of the artists mind, they can be.... well. One woman offered to help arrange my position and I knew full well what she meant, the hussy! Torry laughed so when I told him, bastard that he is! If I do get to be a doctor I suppose that I shall have to give this up.”

“I dare say that Mr. West might take exception to the London galleries being full of naked pictures of his beloved”, Sherlock smiled, “even if he has his own alongside them. Although I doubt that the rest of the capital's female population – and, I suspect, a proportion of its male one too – would find it overly objectionable. It has been a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

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I did like Mr. Galahad LeStrade, but as we journeyed back to Baker Street I could not but think of that handsome virile young body and my own sadly ageing one. I had passed fifty-two that year and Sherlock was very unfairly still in his forties. My friend must have known that I was feeling a little down because he said that he wanted to stop to send a telegram on the way home and that he would do so from Trafalgar Square so we could dine at my favourite restaurant there. I loved him for doing something small yet as considerate as that.

Rather curiously as we were being driven up Baker Street I chanced to look across at the passing traffic and was almost sure that I saw Mr. Galahad LeStrade in a cab going the other way. Great! Now I was not only old but delusional to boot!

We had reached our door when Sherlock suddenly stopped.

“I have a _surprise_ for you tonight!”

The Voice! I was short of breath at once.

“Wh... what is it?” I gasped.

“Go to your room, wait five minutes, then come out naked, with the item you will find on the bed”, he said.

Somehow I managed to stagger to my room and opened the door to find.....

Oh come on!

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If I had not thought that he would come in and drag me out anyway I would have locked the door and sulked there. But I picked up that huge and damnably heavy sword, then came out to find.....

Oh.

Sherlock was stood there dressed in an artist's smock – _and nothing else!_

“My own gallant knight!” he purred and I could feel myself beginning to grow hard. “All you have to do is wait for me to finish this drawing so that we can have sex.”

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The bastard teased me the whole two hours it took him to make a damn fine drawing, even if there may have been a certain element of artistic license in one area of his work (work it out!). Somehow he later found a place to get it framed so we could take it with us to our cottage that was now so close, I could almost smell the downland grass. What could possibly go wrong this late in the day?

Two months to go.

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	18. Case 359: The Adventure Of The Creeping Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1904\. Wife or mistress? The surprising answer in the duo's last ever case from 221B was – both!

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Coincidentally our last case from Baker Street arose not long after I saw a most amusing sign outside a tavern in that busy thoroughfare:  
 _'Gentlemen, do not forget that anniversary._  
 _Bring your lady-friend, get 25% off._  
 _Bring your wife, get 50% off._  
 _Bring both, get 75% off – plus a free ambulance to the hospital!'_

That had been early summer and now, at the start of our last month in Baker Street we were having another breakfast together (yes he was _still_ having most of my bacon and no, that _still_ did not mean that I was whipped thank you very much!). Although there had been the paddle two nights back....

I smiled over what remained of my own meal. Thirty years since we had first met far too many moons ago in Oxford. His impossible hair was flecked with grey now but it only made him look even more distinguished. It was as untidy as ever although that was more probably due to….

Damnation he was looking at me with that knowing smile of his again! Trust my luck to end up with a mind-reader!

My thoughts were interrupted by the bell announcing the advent of visitors. This was not that surprising; it was Saturday and at weekends we always had a late breakfast after sleeping in and…. and I was thinking of It again! Fortunately Sherlock was distracted by ringing back for a fifteen-minute delay while we finished our meal which allowed me to drag my mind out of the gutter that it seemed so fond of whenever the blue-eyed genius was in the vicinity. Although the knowing smirk on his return suggested that there would definitely be some Very Happy Times in the not too distant future.

Our visitors when they arrived were well-dressed ladies both in their mid-twenties, although one was clearly much richer than the other judging from the fineness of her apparel. And also pregnant; four to five months I judged. I wondered as to how they were related. 

The answer came as something of a surprise.

“My name is Lady Ursula Bradstock”, the finely-dressed lady said, “and this is Miss Katherine Kelley. We have a somewhat unusual case for you, gentlemen, and we hope that you would consider taking it.”

Sherlock looked between the two women, and of course being Sherlock he got it. Which was more than I did.

“Queen Alexandra”, he smiled, which cleared things up not at all. Both ladies smiled.

“You tease your poor friend, just as in his stories”, Miss Kelley said playfully. “To explain doctor, I am the mistress of Ursula’s husband who in turn is the youngest son of Nathaniel Earl of Bradstock. I had a son by Lord Thomas earlier this year, James, and he has promised to support him as he grows up.”

“And now I am expecting too”, Lady Bradstock, said with a smile, “although if you could not detect _that_ , Mr. Holmes, then this would be a short meeting indeed!”

I smiled. I understood the royal reference now; the public had come to love the Danish-born queen for the blind eye she turned to her husband’s all too frequent dalliances.

“The reason that we are here”, Lady Bradstock continued, “is our growing concern for my husband. I should explain at this point that the earldom is unfortunate – in my opinion at least – to be afflicted with that the lawyers call 'nominative inheritance'. The title goes to the eldest son as per usual but the bulk of the estate around Stalwarton, the Oxfordshire village where my father-in-law lives, can be willed to any direct male line descendant at the whim of the current holder or, if he has no descendants of his own, to any of those of his brothers. Furthermore the estate has prospered greatly in the last ten years due to certain investments in gold and diamond mines in southern Africa, so there is much to inherit.”

“Can your father-in-law will it to any other family member?” Sherlock asked. Lady Bradstock shook her head.

“Tom has two older brothers, Daniel and George”, she said. “Daniel is twenty-seven, George twenty-six and my husband twenty-three. Both my brothers-in-law are single although both are courting young ladies. It is recent events which have concerned me, and when I found that they were also occurring during his time with Kitty we decided to come to you at once.”

“I see”, Sherlock said. “Pray continue.”

“The estate also has some interests in the West Country”, Lady Bradstock said, “and this March my father-in-law decided to pay them a visit. You may remember that it was unseasonably damp around that time and he returned with a chill which he was unable to shake off for some weeks. I should not speak ill of the man who has been so kind to me, but I am afraid dear Nathaniel does tend towards prevarication, avoiding matters which are better dealt with sooner rather than later. Though we do not know for sure it seems that he has not made any decision upon the succession as of yet, which would mean that the bulk of the estate would be divided equally amongst his three sons upon his death.”

“But something has happened to prevent that”, Sherlock said shrewdly, “or make it less likely and to the detriment of Lord Thomas, otherwise you would not both be here today. What was it?”

Lady Bradstock looked at Miss Kelley who took out a small notebook.

“When Ursula came and told me, I realized that it had happened with me first”, she said. “June the twenty-seventh. It was just after the earl had fully recovered. Tom came down to London for the weekend.”

For some reason Sherlock checked the small calendar on the table next to where he was sat.

“Alone?” he asked. She shook her head.

“He came with his brothers but they only stayed one night before travelling on to some business they had in Kent”, she said. “He was with me on Saturday after my performance – I am an actress and it was my first weekend at the 'Gaumont' in Shaftesbury Avenue – and when I got back to my dressing-room he was crawling all over the floor. It was most shocking but he refused to allow me to call a doctor, and after a night’s rest he seemed to have fully recovered. I would hazard that you might be thinking alcohol, gentlemen, but he has an extremely low tolerance for the stuff and always prefers water or lemonade. Besides, I too do not drink and did not have any alcohol in my room at the time.”

“What did he believe was wrong with him?” I inquired.

“He seemed unable to stand or even sit up”, Miss Kelley said. “It was most worrisome but, as I said, he seemed right as rain the next day so we just thought it was something that he had eaten. His brothers had taken him to a new restaurant the night before – Argentinian, I think he said – and he had not liked it much.”

“I see”, Sherlock said. “What happened next?”

“The same thing happened exactly one month later when he was with me on July the twenty-seventh”, Lady Bradstock said. “He was very bad and so convinced he was dying that he told me all about Kitty and James, although of course I already knew. He did not mention the previous attack or I would have come to you then; that is very much like him I am afraid. As with Kitty he was perfectly fine the following morning.”

“Where was he at the time?” Sherlock asked.

“Visiting Tom’s brother George and his lady friend, Miss Barton-Jones”, she said. “She has a house in the village of Cleveley, not far from Stalwarton. Her uncle is one of the county members of parliament.”

Sherlock pressed his fingers together and thought for a moment.

“Was the next attack on August the twenty-sixth by any chance?” he asked Lady Bradstock. She stared at him in shock.

“Yes”, she said. “How could you know that?”

“It seemed probable”, he said. “Where did it take place?”

“That was what prompted me to seek out Kitty, which was just as well”, Lady Bradstock said grimly. “It happened at the Hall right in front of Nathaniel. Poor Tom just collapsed in his chair and had to be carried out.”

“Presumably he had recovered the following morning?” Sherlock asked.

“He was able to stand but he was not himself”, she said. “His recovery was definitely slower than the month before.”

Sherlock nodded. 

“I have two questions”, he said. “First to you, Lady Bradstock. From your knowledge of your father-in-law would you say that he is at all superstitious?”

She looked surprised at the question but nodded.

“He is rather”, she said. “There is this family curse which dates back to the Middle Ages that states the current line will die out if there is more than one lord of Stalwarton with the same Christian name. A silly superstition one might think, but the only time a lord of the manor tried to break it he and his entire family were wiped out in the English Civil War. Upon the Restoration, the title passed to a cousin of his. No-one has dared to try since.”

“I see”, Sherlock said. “My second question is to you both and may seem rather strange but I do have a reason for asking it. Has Mr. Thomas Bradstock been shaving any more of late?”

Both ladies looked understandably confused. The actress recovered first.

“Now that you come to mention it he has”, she said. She looked across at Lady Bradstock who nodded in confirmation.

“Do you expect another attack soon?” the lady asked anxiously. Sherlock looked at the calendar.

“Today is September the seventh”, he said. “The next attack should not happen until the twenty-fourth, so that gives us some time. Ladies, I need to know something else about Lord Thomas. Does he have any weaknesses, perhaps foods or drink that he is particularly partial to?”

“Fudge!” both ladies said simultaneously before they both laughed. Miss Kelley gestured for Lady Bradstock to go first. 

“He cannot get enough of it”, she said. “The local doctor has warned him about his weight, but when he accompanied his father down to Cornwall he brought back a ton of the dreadful stuff. I have insisted he purchase a rowing-machine from London and that he works out on it every day, much as he does not like it. He hides the stuff all around the house though – one of the estate workers even told me he had offered to pay her to keep a box in her cottage! – so preventing him from consuming it is nigh on impossible!”

“There is also a very exclusive _chocolatier_ near to the theatre which he loves to visit”, Miss Kelley agreed. “It really is the devil’s work to keep him away from it!”

Sherlock’s eyes twinkled. I knew that look.

“On the contrary”, he grinned. “His sweet tooth may well be what saves his life!”

Both ladies looked at him in astonishment.

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A few days later I was writing up some notes when a package came for Sherlock, Upon opening it he smiled then came over to me and placed the paper bag he had extracted from it on my desk the open end towards me. Inside was a gentleman's hair-brush.

“I would like you to test that for me”, he said. “It is related to the Bradstock case.”

“What am I looking for?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“That would defeat the purpose of the test”, he said. “I know what you _should_ find, but I would like you to 'blind' test it as they say and then tell me what you _did_ find.”

I nodded, put away my notes and went to fetch my testing kit.

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“Well?” he asked once I had finished.

“The hair is from someone who is being constantly exposed to low levels of a mildly toxic chemical compound”, I said. “The sample is small but I do not think based on the amounts present that such a dose would be fatal, although it may be that the victim is particularly susceptible in some way. There may also be other chemicals involved but of too small an amount to be identified. With what I have I can only be certain of the one.”

“That is enough for me”, he said grimly. “It is as I feared. We are fortunate that we shall be able to close this case before we leave.”

I looked at him in surprise but clearly he was going to say no more.

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The day before what Sherlock somehow knew would be the next attack – he was bound to be right but he was always quite insufferably smug when I admitted it and surely even at this late stage there had to be a first time for his omniscience to fail – we went to Paddington Station where we met Miss Kelley. The three of us then journeyed up to Oxford from where we took a local train to the little market town of King’s Linton. The Forston, Milton and Wolfstown Railway did continue on to serve Stalwarton but Sherlock did not want to go there just yet. In the Grease Monkey tavern (honestly, modern pub names!) we met with Lady Bradstock. 

“You are certain that this will work?” she asked anxiously.

“Quite certain”, Sherlock said. “Did you bring it?”

She opened her case and extracted a large box of fudge which she handed over to him, and which he passed onto me. I took it and Miss Kelley then handed him her bag from which he took an identical box.

“You _are_ going to explain all this to us, Mr. Holmes?” Lady Bradstock asked.

“Of course”, Sherlock said. “Your husband is being poisoned by his elder brothers.”

She stared at him in shock.

“What makes you say that?” she said at last.

“Tomorrow is the twenty-fourth, is it not?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Then that is when they will make their next attack on him. Except that it will go wrong.”

“What do you mean?” she asked. He sat back.

“Shortly the doctor will be taking this poisonous confectionery back down to Oxford where he will test it at the laboratory, before returning here”, he said. “The chemical in them is in itself relatively harmless. But when combined with a certain other chemical, the result on the person unfortunate enough to imbibe them both and at the same time is dramatic. It involves two things; complete loss of bodily control and rapid hair growth. Though I have not met him I would wager that the earl did not take well to seeing his youngest son struck down in this way.”

“But the other chemical?” Lady Bradstock pushed.

“The doctor will bring his test results back this evening”, Sherlock said. “Unless they contain something very surprising then the other chemical too will also be relatively harmless. You see, it is the _combination_ that is the key – a person could imbibe either with little if any effect, but as you have seen, together they lead to what your poor husband has been suffering as of late. Which brings me to the matter in hand. I would assume that your brothers-in-law would want to administer it away from your eyes to be on the safe side, so one presumes it would be done when the gentlemen adjourn after dinner. You said that your husband does not like alcohol, so what does he take when the gentlemen retire after dinner?”

“He usually has lemon juice”, she said, “which I suppose is quite sharp and would hide the taste of anything.”

“It will be difficult but you will need to keep an eye on your husband today”, Sherlock said. “Even though I do not expect anything to be tried until tomorrow.”

“Why tomorrow?” Miss Kelley asked. “And how did you know the date of the August attack before we told you?”

“It ties in with my question as to the superstitious nature of the earl”, Sherlock said with a smile. “Belief in werewolves, especially in country areas, is surprisingly strong even amongst the nobility. The dates of the attacks were the last three Full Moons, and tomorrow night is the next one. I feel sure that Mr. George and Mr. Daniel have lost no time in reminding their father of that fact. Now we will have some coffee, tea and cakes, although the doctor regrettably for him must hasten back to the city of dreaming spires and his tests.”

I pouted and they all laughed. But Sherlock arranged a box of chocolate muffins for me to take so I forgave him.

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When I reached the hospital (I had obviously had to eat the muffins to save carrying them around), I was surprised to find a second sample had been sent there for me to test which I assumed must have been Sherlock's other chemical. Naturally I shall not disclose the names of the substances in question save to say that Sherlock was (as ever) correct in his assumption. I would have wondered as to how he had obtained the second sample but I knew better. Ignorance was bliss with some of the things that my man got up to. Many of them come to that.

But he was mine and I would not have changed him for the whole wide world!

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The following morning Lady Bradstock sent her carriage for us as agreed and the two of us were driven up to Stalwarton Hall (we left Miss Kelley to travel back to London for obvious reasons although Sherlock promised to telegraph her once the case was sorted). The hall was a charming grey-stone building, not overly large for an ancestral home and set on a slight hill above a model village of some eleven identical cottages and a timber-framed inn called The Stalwart Man. The River Cherwell gleamed in the summer sun not far to the west and it was hard to believe we were barely five miles from the hustle and bustle of Oxford, scene of our first meeting almost exactly thirty years ago.

Thirty years!

Lady Bradstock herself came out to greet and to usher us in. Once inside we met the rest of the family who were much as she had described. Her husband was young and smartly-dressed, definitely tending towards portliness (the fudge!) and had hair that was almost as bad as Sherlock’s. His two elder brothers both had the sandy-brown hair I could see in the many portraits in the entrance-hall and neither looked that pleased to see us. We were shown into the earl’s room where a gentleman in his late fifties was sat by the fire.

“Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson”, he said gruffly. “What brings you to our neck of the woods, may I ask? I do hope you have not found any dead bodies lying around Oxfordshire.”

“Not yet Your Grace”, Sherlock said amiably, “though I am here in a somewhat unusual capacity.”

The earl looked at him in surprise.

“Please explain”, he said.

“In my line of work”, Sherlock said, “it is usual that I start with a crime and then have to work out as the detective novels who mangle the English language persist in saying, ‘who done it’. Writers these days! This time however I have managed to prevent a crime.”

“This time?” the earl said sharply. “Here?”

“Indeed”, Sherlock said. “The wrongful disinheritance of a faithful and above all else healthy son.”

The earl’s eyes narrowed.

“You are referring to Tom and his problem, I suppose”, he said. “Harrumph! What business is that of yours, sir?”

“If it involves a peer of the realm being duped it becomes my business”, Sherlock said. “I would like to show you something but I warn you now, you will not be pleased with it.”

He produced from his pocket the two bottles of chemicals I had brought back from the hospital the night before. He placed them on the table next to his chair.

“I will not bore you with long scientific names which will mean nothing to anyone here”, he said. “Let us call these simply Chemical A and Chemical B. Both have been tested and certified by Doctor Watson here and also by a leading scientist in his field at Oxford; of their composition there can be no doubt. Chemical A is toxic but not deadly except in much larger amounts than you see here, while Chemical B is almost completely harmless. However, when they are imbibed at the same time, the _combination_ of the two has a most striking effect. The unlucky person who has the resultant mixture in their bloodstream loses all muscular control for a period of approximately twelve hours, and the growth of their body hair increases substantially.”

The earl raised his eyebrows but did not interrupt.

“As with all poisons the body works to expel it, most usually through the hair”, Sherlock said. “When she called me in on this case I questioned Lady Ursula about her husband's so-called attacks, and quickly worked out what was happening. I asked her for his hair-brush with as much hair as she could get on it, and the doctor then tested it for me. Your youngest son has been exposed to constant low levels of Chemical A for at least the past three months, it having been dosed into the fudge that he has a weakness for.”

Lord Thomas blushed. 

“How did it get there?” the earl asked.

“It was injected by syringe”, Sherlock explained. “Which brings me to the less pleasant part of my visit. I am sorry to say that a few nights ago while you were all sleeping I employed the professional burglary services of one of the top men in his profession in London. He or rather his superior owed me a favour, and I cashed it in.”

Mr. Marcus Crowley's other favour, I remembered.

“Why?” the earl demanded. 

“For two reasons”, Sherlock said. “Firstly I wanted to see if Lord Thomas’ elder brothers had any of Chemical B in their possession. I struck gold as the saying goes; my man found not only the chemical but also syringes in their possession, hardly the sort of thing that country gentlemen need in their day-to-day lives. It was relatively easy for Lord Daniel and Lord George to dose their younger brother's sharp-tasting lemon juice with Chemical B and they were careful to always do it on Full Moon nights, suggesting to you their father that perhaps all those stories about werewolves were not stories after all. The whole was aimed at making you come to doubt his suitability as an heir.”

“This is all lies, father!” Lord Daniel said hotly. “What proof is there? The word of this man and his hired thief?”

“Perhaps you might add the word of the scientists down at Oxford”, Sherlock said, “who also found _your_ fingerprints on that syringe.”

The earl turned to his two elder sons.

“Is this true?” he demanded.

Their silence spoke volumes. Both hung their heads.

“I think that you both need to be away from here for a long time”, the earl said coldly. “My interests in South Africa need closer attention. You will go there. This week.”

Both men bowed their heads and left without a word. The earl turned to Sherlock.

“How can I ever thank you?” he said.

“You should thank Lady Ursula”, Sherlock smiled. “I think the doctor and I both agree she is a most remarkable lady!”

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We dispatched the promised telegram to Miss Kelley then took the train back to London. It seemed odd to think that almost exactly thirty years back a fresh-faced young English doctor had been heading in the opposite direction along these same tracks, little knowing either that he was about to meet the love of his life or that it would take full twenty of those thirty years for him to get his head out of his fundament and realize.....

Sherlock was pulling down the blinds and wedging the compartment door locked. _Oh._

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Postscriptum: The earl kept his word and his two oldest sons were dispatched on the 'Cameroon' to the Dark Continent. It seems however that once again a higher power decided on a rather greater punishment for they went down with that ship off the coast of Liberia. The earl himself died soon after and Lord Thomas succeeded to the title and the estate at Stalwarton, where he and his redoubtable wife continue to prosper.

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	19. Interlude: Home And Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1904\. Farewell to Baker Street, as the dynamic duo quit London for their cottage on the Downs. And all that sex!

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Not for the last time I gave silent thanks that Baker Street was so near to Paddington Station. The last cab-drive back between the two had been utter agony after Sherlock had had his way with me all the way back from Oxford, and I had even had to rest for a moment before attempting to climb Mount Everest, or as he insisted on calling them, the stairs back up to our rooms.

Our rooms. Except that they were no longer really ours. All our worldly goods were already down in Sussex awaiting out arrival, save what we needed for that night and the next morning – our last morning – in two handbags. Although we seemed to have been here forever I had had just eighteen years here if I included those three terrible years _sans_ Sherlock, after five years in Cramer Street, two in Montague Street and those few short weeks in Dorset Street. All had in turn been my home even if rented, and now we were going to a place of our own at last.

I allowed myself a manly sniff.

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The following morning our two bags stood ready by the door. While we waited for the cab to arrive we both looked around the rooms that we would probably never see again. Despite the love I felt for the cottage on the downs, I still felt sad at leaving the scene of so many of our adventures.

“Our home”, I said sadly. There may or may not have been another manly sniff.

Sherlock looked at his watch.

“The cab will be here in five minutes”, he said. “We should say goodbye to the old place.”

I was about to agree when he suddenly pulled me into a kiss, his tongue pushing into my mouth. I was feeling a little weakened as he had scented me after my shower that morning and that always affected me. He pushed me back against the door and continued his assault; I moaned in pleasure then again as I felt his hand working inside my trousers and underpants. Those long fingers of his wrapped around my rapidly-hardening cock and began to jerk me off. I was putty in those hands and only his support kept me from collapsing to the floor as he jerked me towards an orgasm that left me breathless. 

He grinned at me and wiped his hand on the inside of my underpants before withdrawing it.

“You have the worst timing!” I grumbled. “The cab-driver will hate us!”

“At least you can remember our last moments here with fondness”, he grinned unabashedly. “Or at least remember the fondling. Besides I need to keep you on your toes, _old man.”_

“I am only two and a half years older than you”, I grumbled. “And why?”

He opened the door and picked up his bag.

“Because we have to spend this afternoon and evening christening every room in the new cottage, remember!” he grinned, slipping away before I could say anything.

Then again, I suppose that there were one or two things to be said for moving house.....

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The journey to the cottage seemed interminably long – some bastard insisted that we could not have sex on the train as 'we would need our energy for later' – and we finally rolled into Berwick Station where the carriage Sherlock had arranged took us the remaining miles to our new home.

Our. New. Home. Such wonderful words. Two middle-aged – _not_ old! – gentlemen, one of whom had done so much good in the world. We deserved our retirement.

I smiled as we finally drew up outside the cottage. The old nameplate with the utterly unimaginative 'Hill Cottage' had been replaced by a new one. Our new home was now 'Elementary' (my choice, and I had scowled mightily at someone when he had suggested in turn 'Pant-y-pink', 'The Bed-Breakers', 'Sherlock's Home', 'Doctor's Orders', 'Makin' Bacon' and, to cap it all, 'Dundetecting'!).

I had forgotten or more likely did not think to recall Sherlock's brother's warning about the seven cases that still lay ahead of us, the last of which might be particularly traumatic for me personally. Instead I looked across at the man that I loved more than life itself and smiled. 

We had come home.

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End file.
